Quinto Sol
by kishiria
Summary: FINALLY UPDATED! Jion soldiers defend against the Federation under the hot Mexican sun.
1. Default Chapter

[Official Silliness: I don't own Mobile Suit Gundam, although if the franchise is for sale, I'll buy it provided it's in my price range. I do, however, own the 505th Falling Eagles, and any attempt to use them without my knowledge and permission will result in the offender being shown his or her own beating heart.  
  
This one goes out to all those folks who can't understand why anyone would be a Jion loyalist. You know who you are.]  
  
QUINTO SOL  
  
Sunlight and heat. Blazing sunlight and dry, baking heat. Captain Octavio Duarte Garcia extended his hands into it as he walked down the stone pavement towards the mobile suit hangar. Even though his eyes were protected by the polarized plastic lenses of his sunglasses, the glare never relented.  
  
"You never get tired of this, do you?" asked Lt. Luna Ruiz from beside him.  
  
He grinned at her. "You're not used to being home, are you, mija[1]?"  
  
Luna snorted. "For me, home is Side 3, jefe. Maybe being in space isn't as romantic as being in the motherland, but it's got its advantages. No sunburns. No scorpions in your boots in the morning."  
  
"Water you can drink from the tap," said Sgt. George Villalobos, who had experienced a downright historical case of bacterial intestinal upset when they'd landed on Earth three months before.  
  
"Andalé,[2]" agreed Jésus Lopez.  
  
"You guys have been spoiled from living in that damn tin can," Warrant Officer Leobardo Magadan laughed at them. At forty, he was the oldest member of the 505th Company of the North American Occupation Forces (the Falling Eagles), on Earth since March 4th of 0079. The very reserved Sgt. Maria Franco was next oldest at 38, followed by Octavio at 36.  
  
Octavio, Tavi to his friends, had observed a distinct split in attitude between those born on Side 3 and those born here in Mexico. The Earthnoids thought the Spacenoids were soft, the Spacenoids thought the Earthnoids were primitive. It was a split that provided many of the running jokes in his company, but also worried him. He couldn't argue that they all fought well together, but that sense of being one unit with one identity was not as developed as he would like.  
  
Their nine mobile suits, MS-06D Zaku II desert types stood lined up in the hangar. Not long ago, they were top of the line machines, streamlined for fighting in Earth's gravity and heat. Now reports of new mobiles suits called Goufs were circulating, and the company were hoping for at least a few.  
  
The one man who possibly was hoping for them more was visible working inside the access hatch in the torso of Tavi's red, white, and green Zaku. Pablo Gonzalez Garcia, Octavio's cousin, was a mechanic for the Falling Eagles. He was also an artist who dearly loved being the one to have given all the Zakus their distinctive paint jobs.  
  
He'd talk to him later. Right now, Tavi turned to his troops and said, "All right. For this practice mission, we have to pick who's going to be the team with only two members." He pulled his lucky 10-peso coin out of his pocket. Pesos had been disused since the advent of the Federation credit, which in turn had been made obsolete in the area by the Jion dollar, but Tavi had kept this one near him since childhood. "Okay, Third Team. Eagle or calendar?"  
  
"Eagle," said Franco.  
  
Tavi tossed the coin. "Eagle. You win." He handed it to Franco, who repeated the procedure against Tavi's First Team and lost.  
  
"Ay, we always get to be short a man," said Second Lieutenant Provi Alcaraz.  
  
"You do not," Villalobos said. "I know. I counted."  
  
"Everybody be quiet and mount," Tavi ordered.  
  
He rode the lift up to the torso of his mobile suit. He leaned into the access hatch beside his cockpit and said, "Hey, Pablito, you done in there? I have to take off."  
  
Pablito crawled out, wiping grease from his hands with a rag. The ease with which he did this was the reason Tavi had lobbied Princess Kishiria to have him added to his crew. Pablito was only three foot six.  
  
"He's the best mechanic I know," Tavi had pleaded to Kishiria, who was concealed at that moment behind her signature purple mask. "His size is because his family couldn't afford growth hormones on Earth, and once they got to Jion it was too late. He can serve us perfectly well, Your Highness, better than a full-size mechanic because he can actually get into the machinery."  
  
Kishiria had closed her eyes in thought for a moment, then said, "Very well. But he's your personal technician. If you think he can do the job, then he will do the job for you."  
  
"Your weapon's loaded with paintballs and ready to go," Pablito told Tavi. "I took care of that timing problem in the left arm too. Any word about the new pilot?"  
  
Tavi nodded. "He'll be coming in from California Base this afternoon. I'll be back in time to meet him."  
  
Pablito nodded and backed his tech's platform away from the suit.  
  
Tavi settled into his seat and closed the hatch. The first thing he did after starting the engine was to turn on the air conditioner. Some of his pilots preferred to drive in normal suits, but Tavi didn't see any real reason why. He saw not needing a normal suit as being one of the distinct advantages of being on Earth. He was more than happy to pilot in his short- sleeved khaki uniform.  
  
He took of his sunglasses, belted himself in, and turned on his screens. Around him he could see the bright colours of his company's suits. Aces in space such as Char Aznable, Johnny Ridden and Anavel Gato all had distinctive colours, and his company had pleaded to be allowed their own as well. Since Federation weaponry tended to be a very visible white, Tavi had agreed.  
  
But he had never expected colour schemes quite like these. His own was subdued compared to Luna's pink and blue, or Provi's green jungle pattern with macaws. His favourite was Villalobos's matte green with an Aztec warrior cradling a big-breasted dead woman in his arms on the cockpit. Pablito had just about swooned with ecstasy at being given that paint job.  
  
The other doors to the hangar led directly onto a macadam roadway built by the Jions in order to avoid walking their mobile suits across the stone pavement they had just crossed on foot. It had been built by the Aztecs, and was surrounded on all four sides by sacred buildings. The Falling Eagles hadn't come all the way from the dark side of the moon to vandalize it.  
  
They went southeast, walking aside a regularly trafficked road. This was tricky, since they had to avoid houses, roadside kitchens, half-wild dogs, and the occasional burro. Walking on the road was impossible, they had found, as bus and collectivo[3] drivers refused to yield to the Zakus. They simply tried to speed up and outrun them, which had led to a messy traffic accident when the Eagles had first arrived. Despite the swiftness with which the Jions had placed the injured in their own hospital, it hadn't been a good introduction to the locals. Although Tavi did give some serious thought to training collectivo drivers to be mobile suit pilots.  
  
They turned off the road and headed into the low mountains. Tavi loved this part of every training mission. The landscape was in a palette of subdued greys and tans. The old mountains were stubbled with short trees and exposed rock. At one point they passed a sharply pointed hill, topped with a church that marked the presence of an unexcavated pyramid.  
  
"This is good. Teams Two and Three, you have ten minutes to hide. Ruiz, Hernandez, you're with me. Anybody who hits the antiquities has to answer to me. Go!"  
  
As if this were a massive game of hide-and-seek, which in a way it was, Tavi's team turned around to allow the other teams a chance to get away. Octavio looked down at his watch.  
  
"Usual formations, jefe[4]?" asked Ruiz.  
  
"Yes. I'm more concerned today with us keeping up our speed and accuracy than developing new tactics."  
  
When they hit the ten minute mark, the three Zakus started marching forward, machine guns at the ready. His wingmen were pointing their weapons to the left and right while Tavi walked forward, paying careful attention to the cameras to the rear.  
  
His vigilance paid off. Magadan's matte-white Zaku with black spots was harder to make out than some of the other paint schemes would have been, but with its sheer size, it was hard to miss.  
  
"On your six!" he yelled to Hernandez and Ruiz. They spun and opened fire. Assisted by the extra boosters added to assist in Earth's gravity, Magadan whizzed sideways behind a ridge.  
  
"Stay together," Tavi ordered. "Alcaraz can't be far behind."  
  
Just then, he heard the distinctive booming sound of Zaku feet running towards him. Before he could open his mouth, Ruiz was firing at Jesus Lopez's grey-with-Aztec-gylphs suit, which was distinct against the clear blue sky. Tavi and Hernandez stuck close but had to start firing on their own at Maria Franco's green Zaku. Hernandez took a paintball splotch to the right arm and had to transfer his machine gun to the left, sacrificing accuracy.  
  
"I'm behind you," Octavio assured Hernandez, and began shadowing him as he moved forward. Franco fired again and Hernandez dodged to the side, leaving Octavio exposed, but also clearing a path for him to fire. Octavio took advantage of Hernandez's sudden movement to let loose with the paint- filled cracker he'd pulled from his suit's waist, splattering Franco's suit and taking her out of the game.  
  
They continued like this for several hours, using crackers and machine guns, but occasionally going to Octavio's favourite exercise, grappling. It hurt to be rolling around in gravity, bouncing against the straps of his seatbelts, but he took pleasure in the ability of these Zakus to move so finely in atmosphere and felt it was worth a few bruises. Besides, it would give Luisa reason to dote on him later.  
  
Despite only having two members, Team Two won. Hours later, eight dust- covered, paint-spattered Zakus marched single file back into the hangar.  
  
"Chingao[5], I hate this part," Pablito said as he looked at the mess Octavio had made of his mobile suit.  
  
Tavi stood with his cousin, looking up and rubbing his battered shoulders. "It washes off, and you don't have to repair any real damage, verdad[6]?"  
  
"Andalé. I'll go get the hoses. Oh, I got a call from the office. Your new pilot's here. Let me know what his paint job will be."  
  
The new guy was sitting outside Tavi's office, reading a newspaper as Tavi's secretary concentrated on whatever was on her screen. He put the paper down and snapped to his feet as soon as the captain entered. "First Lt. Mike Chavez reporting for duty, sir!"  
  
"At ease. Conchita got you a cup of coffee while we were all out in the desert?"  
  
"Sgt. Espinoza? Yes sir, she did."  
  
"All right then. Come into my office, we'll talk."  
  
Chavez was a tall, slim man in his thirties with close-cropped black hair. He was dressed in a short-sleeved khaki uniform like the rest of the soldiers on base, although his looked as if it had still been in plastic wrappings that morning. He sat in front of Tavi's desk looking alert and nervous.  
  
Espinoza had left Chavez's file on his desk, but Tavi preferred to read it after meeting the man. "So. Battalion sent you down to replace Olmeda. They don't need you up in California?"  
  
"Colonel Zabi didn't want one of your teams left short a man."  
  
"Generous of him. Why did they really choose you?"  
  
Chavez looked uncomfortable. "What do you mean, sir?"  
  
"If I were Prince Garma, sitting there in California with the mobile suit factories around me, I would hesitate to send a pilot away."  
  
Chavez looked downcast. "There wasn't a suit for me to pilot, sir. So rather than take Olmeda's suit from you, they decided to send me down to pilot it. Jion Forces Base Teotihuacan is strategically important, since it sits almost on the line between Jion and Federation territory."  
  
"I see, but why didn't they have a suit for you? California is the factory, and I know they're developing a new model of suit for Earth atmosphere."  
  
"Yes sir, the Gouf. Um, they're being sent to Asia mostly, sir."  
  
"Really?" Tavi felt his heart sink.  
  
"Yes, sir. Even Prince Garma himself won't be getting one."  
  
"Very strange." Octavio decided not to ask or comment about the politics behind this.  
  
"Since this is a Spanish-speaking, Mexican-Jion company, they felt I would fit in well."  
  
"And will you?" Tavi asked, smiling a little.  
  
"I don't know, sir. I was born in Los Angeles."  
  
Tavi opened the file in front of him. Michael (not Miguel) Chavez, born in Los Angeles, California. Bachelor's in finance, UCLA. Involuntary relocation to Side 3 immediately after. Resident of Faraday Colony.  
  
"You'll be the only one of us born outside of Mexico or Nuevo-Aztlan," Tavi said.  
  
"Yes sir. Well, I was initially patriated to Nuevo Aztlan, but-" His voice trailed off.  
  
"But what?"  
  
"I applied to move to another colony because I usually speak English. Battalion thought I'd be a good choice for this position because I'm Chicano, though."  
  
Octavio didn't think that would be the key to his fitting in. Frankly, he'd have preferred a pilot chosen for his skill rather than for the colour of his skin.  
  
"We've got a Zaku II Desert Type waiting for you. How much experience do you have with those?"  
  
Chavez grinned. "I was one of the test pilots. Having grown up in California, I knew the terrain, you see."  
  
Tavi nodded, relieved. So Garma's selection had not been out of racial condescension. He'd always heard the prince was smart. "What colour do you want it? We all have individual colour schemes."  
  
Chavez thought for a moment. "Dark blue?"  
  
"Dark blue it is." He stood and picked up his wide-brimmed khaki-coloured hat from the coat rack and showed it to him. "Were you issued one of these yet?"  
  
"No sir, I thought out here we wore the caps with the cloth flap in back."  
  
"The troops in the desert get those. We have a rainy season and these are water repellent as well as good against sun. I'll have the quartermaster get you one. Come on. I'll introduce you to the rest of the team."  
  
The Eagles were sheltering themselves from the day's heat under the canopy of an outdoor kitchen. These were standard throughout Mexico; a covered patio with a grill and counters. Another thing that held the company together was the family atmosphere they managed. Octavio's wife Luisa was supervising the cooking with the help of Magadan's , Villalobos's and Lopez's wives. The female members of the company were permanently excused from such domestic duties although Maria Franco, who was a widow, sometimes liked to participate.  
  
Not today, though. Octavio's soldiers were sitting around a large picnic table with the collars of their uniforms undone, drinking tamarind water as their dogs wandered around their feet, sniffing.  
  
"Compañeros," said Tavi as he approached the table, "this is our new pilot, Mike Chavez. Mike, this is Luna Ruiz, Leo Magadan, Pedro Hernandez, Provi Alcaraz, Maria Franco, George Villalobos, and Jesus Maria Jose Lopez."  
  
"Pleased to meet all of you," Chavez said.  
  
"Do you want zucchini flower or corn fungus in your quesadilla?" asked Antonia Villalobos.  
  
"Er.zucchini flower, please," said Chavez.  
  
Chavez was friendly enough, but everyone at the table noticed how easy he went on the salsa and that he didn't seem too certain about the zucchini flower. Octavio wondered how he'd react to menudo, the tripe soup that was a common hangover remedy. Hernandez claimed to have once seen the face of the Virgin in a bowl.  
  
Later that night, in the geodesic dome structure they lived in, Octavio came out of the shower with a towel wrapped around his waist. Luisa was already in bed, her dark hair freed from its braid, dressed in an embroidered nightgown.  
  
"Tavi, you're all bruised!" she exclaimed, putting her book aside and kneeling beside him as he sat on the bed.  
  
"Jose's Zaku and mine were wrestling," he explained.  
  
"I don't know why you do this," she complained.  
  
"Part of my job, Luisita. Ground combat is different from space, and one of the factors is that you get beaten all to hell."  
  
"I'll get some hot salt water," she said, getting up.  
  
"Oh, just let it be."  
  
"I don't want you to be all stiff in the morning."  
  
"Usually you don't complain when that happens."  
  
She smacked his arm, making him yelp. "You know what I mean, cabron.[7]"  
  
"All right, get the hot water."  
  
As Luisa started a pot of water in the kitchen, Octavio slid into a pair of shorts and went to the bathroom for anti-inflammatories. Folk remedies were all well and good, but he had no quarrel with modern medicine.  
  
He was half-asleep when Luisa returned to the bedroom with the pot and several hand towels. She soaked two, wrung them out, and placed them over the bruises on his shoulders, making him wince. "Your new guy is puzzled by us, I can tell."  
  
"He doesn't quite get that we have a different culture down here. Kishiria was very indulgent with us, letting us bring our families along. But Prince Dozel has his pregnant wife on Solomon, so there's precedent."  
  
"It's not as if we wives can't fight too, if we have to."  
  
"Let's hope it never comes to that."  
  
"Claro[8]. I don't want to have to go back to Side 3 ever again. It's so good to have the sun on my face again, and to have buildings with history."  
  
"Villalobos would say that with enough time, the buildings in Nuevo-Aztlan will have history."  
  
"Yes, but like those?" She gestured to the window, through which the great temples of Teotihuacan were visible in outline.  
  
Tavi pulled Luisa down beside him. "That's why we're here, mi amor[9]. We both had good lives in Mexico. Others weren't so lucky, and Side 3 has been an improvement for them. Here, we fight so that we can have the choice. If Earth is in the hands of Jion, you and I can stay here, while others can live on Nuevo-Aztlan. The right to travel and relocate is one the Federation forgot very quickly." He lifted the cooling towels from his shoulder and tossed them to the cement floor. "Time to sleep now," he said.  
  
Luisa turned off the light and they cuddled under the covers.  
  
Octavio lay awake for a good half hour after Luisa started to snore. Federation territory was only a few hundred kilometers away. Why were the new mobile suits being denied to North America, to the extent that not even the royal family's representative would receive one? It was true that Jabro lay somewhere deep in South America, but still.  
  
There was nothing he could do about it now. Octavio succeeded to find a comfortable position and fell asleep.  
----------------------- [1] "My daughter". [2] "Right on" [3] Scary minibus driven by pulque-crazed maniacwho can't see out his windshield anyway because of all the pictures of Jesus he has stuck there. The only way to travel! [4] "Boss" [5] (Something like "fuck me", but ruder. A really naughty phrase.) [6] "True?" [7] Literally, "goat". Implies, "you moron" or "bastard" depending on context. [8] "Clearly" [9] "My love" 


	2. Chapter 2

QUINTO SOL part 2.  
  
(Author's note: this chapter contains references to characters and situations that belong to His Divine Shadow and I take no credit or responsibility for them.)  
  
(Also, big keyboard salute to Zinegata for catching an error about Federation aircraft. I originally said Flydart when I should have said Fly Mantha. I regret the error; it's been fixed now.)  
  
Mike Chavez turned off the lights in his room and looked through his window at the temples and pyramids. So this was Mexico. It was a big change from Los Angeles, even more so from Faraday Colony. He hoped he'd never have to explain to his comrades that the reason he had left Nuevo Aztlan hadn't just been language. It had been the assumption that just because he was brown and spoke Spanish that it was the place where he should be.  
  
He'd always considered himself a proud citizen of the Federation until the moment his family's number was drawn and they were told to report in for repatriation to Side 3. It wasn't something he had expected at all. He was educated and middle class, not the usual type of person sent to the Sides. Sure, he didn't have a job yet, but it wasn't as if he'd had a chance to finish his job search, either. His parents both had jobs, but were told they would find better ones in what was then Munzo Colony.  
  
From Los Angeles they'd been sent to the colony-bound spaceport in the Philippines and loaded onto a ship headed for Nuevo-Aztlan. They were told they could choose residence in any of its three cylinders: Juarez, Guadalupe, or Hidalgo.  
  
On the shuttle, he'd met a family who didn't seem like most of the other travelers. They spoke English and their last name was Shiden. "We're Puerto Ricans," the husband had said as his wife rewarded a smart-aleck comment from her son with a smack to the mouth. "Somebody figured that if you're Hispanic you must be Mexican, I guess. If we don't like it we'll move. That's what we jíbarros do."  
  
Unlike the Shidens, many of the people on the ship were frightened, but hopeful. Others just seemed terrified. Chavez recalled one elderly couple, the man in worn slacks, a white button-down shirt and straw Stetson, the woman in a nondescript dress and apron, her salt-and-pepper hair in two braids, clinging to each other with their bundles at their feet.  
  
Once in Side 3, there was a period of living in temporary housing while they found jobs and a place to live. Chavez's parents found work quickly, with their professional backgrounds and fluent Spanish from being born in Tijuana. In fact, they seemed to flourish right away.  
  
While his parents may have enjoyed the fact that they lived in a recently- built house and could go a short way to a chaotic market selling plucked dead chickens with head and feet attached, home-grown herbs, and neat piles of rolls in big wicker baskets, he didn't. His parents felt that this combined all the best of southern California with Mexico, which for him was the problem. Chavez applied for jobs elsewhere in Side 3, and found one to his liking on Faraday.  
  
Chavez had been in the military for two years, having joined when Federation economic sanctions succeeded in killing the company for which he worked. It hadn't been his first choice for new employment, but having lost his home and his job to the Federation, he didn't find getting into uniform terribly difficult.  
  
Now, irony of ironies, Chavez found himself in the real Mexico after all. He'd never been there except for a ten-day class trip in high school. Returning to southern California with the invading Jion forces in March had been a dream come true. The first thing he had done after things settled down was to go surfing in Huntington Beach. The surf was wicked because of the disruption of the waves caused by the destruction of Sydney, Australia, and Ruby's Diner at the end of the pier had fallen into the ocean. Again.  
  
He turned the light back on and finished putting his clothes in his closet and dresser. Housing was in geodesic domes that were of a decent size and furnished. Captain Duarte lived in a cluster of four domes, which made Chavez suspect he would be seeing his commander's family around base.  
  
Chavez opened the door of his place and sat on a low cement wall outside of it for a smoke. The night was still hot and muggy, although he had a feeling it would cool down dramatically towards morning. The temples of Teotihuacan loomed darkly against the artificial lighting of the base. He'd climbed the Pyramid of the Sun during that ten-day school trip and had sore thigh muscles for days. If he did it again, he'd stretch properly first.  
  
He crushed out his cigarette, feeling more optimistic. This might not be a bad assignment. The Falling Eagles were a nice enough bunch, though he'd have to loosen up a bit in order to fit in. Everybody seemed to have a dog, so maybe that would be a start.  
  
Suddenly, something moved quickly against the wall to his right. Chavez instinctively sprang over the wall he was sitting on and raised his head slightly to see what it was. There was no sound, but he was sure he'd seen a movement. Rumours he'd heard of super-humans with unnatural speed and reflexes repeated themselves in his head.  
  
The thing moved again. Chavez pulled himself down beneath the wall and watched. A second later, his would-be assailant revealed itself to be a five-inch lizard, looking for its supper. Chavez sighed, feeling stupid, and stood.  
  
"This is between you and me, okay?" he asked the lizard, which just flicked its tongue. Shaking his head, he went indoors for a shower and some sleep.  
  
*** "Okay, today's assignment is reconstruction," Octavio Duarte told his three teams. "We've got a nice checklist from Battalion as to what they expect to be done so far and what needs to get started." He gave the papers to Conchita, who started handing them out. Chavez ran his eyes down the list and cringed inwardly. These were not cheap projects. At the same time, North America wasn't getting new mobile suits to defend the new infrastructure. He gritted his teeth slightly, seeing the hand of the populist master Giren all over the plans.  
  
"Luna, Leo, you both are on the high-tension wire restoration project," Duarte started. "Pedro, Provi, Lopez, check in on the irrigation projects in Atlixco. Chavez, Maria, you two look in on the telephone lines. Villalobos, we've got a village dispute over a well southeast of San Martin. Conchita, give him the coordinates."  
  
"Is digging them a new well an option, jefe?" Villalobos asked.  
  
"Depends on whether or not they'll argue over who gets the new well," Duarte told him. "See what kind of people they are, first. If it'd help, sure."  
  
After a few questions, they were ready to go and Duarte dismissed them for the day. Chavez left for his Zaku feeling out of his depth. He'd come down to defend and fight, and he didn't know if he was going to be up to industrial development.  
  
"So how nervous are you, knowing that the Fedichos [1] are just a few hundred kilometers away?" Chavez asked Maria Franco. Her no-nonsense olive green Zaku marched along beside his, which was now just matte-grey, having not been painted yet.  
  
"It's not too bad here," she answered. "We've got it pretty easy, defending the capitol and the Puebla-Tlaxcala area. Those poor guys down in Veracruz, now their job stinks. They have to hold the port for Jion while the Fedichos are sitting over the state line in Oaxaca, grinning at them. We've torn up the road between the two cities but tanks and planes don't need them. Plus, they have battleships too, but we've been lucky enough not to see them lately."  
  
"Were you in the drop operation?"  
  
"I was," she answered. "Were you?"  
  
"Yup. And the taking of California Base. Exciting times."  
  
"Ones I can live without," Franco told him. "I lost my husband in the One Week War, and I don't know how many friends to Fly Mantha attacks during the drop into Mesoamerica."  
  
"What's your background?" Chavez thought to ask. "I hear from your accent you weren't born on Side 3."  
  
"You weren't either. Tell you what. Buy me a cemita later and I'll tell you."  
  
They continued out to where workers in orange jumpsuits were installing telephone poles and cables. They were assisted by a Zaku I that was now painted blue with the TelMex logo on the shoulder. As the men poured concrete into holes, the Zaku lifted the poles from a truck and planted them neatly, securing them in the ground. Other workers continued by stringing the lines.  
  
Maria stopped her Zaku and had it kneel so she could climb out. Chavez did the same. She walked up to the foreman, a man taller and lighter-skinned than those in the orange jumpsuits, and said, "Ingeniero [2]Rodriguez. Let me present the newest member of the Falling Eagles, Mike Chavez. He's been sent down from California base."  
  
"Pleased to meet you." Rodriguez shook his hand. "Señorita, tell Captain Duarte that over in the hills over there are caves with many rabbits in them. We didn't have any food to give them, and they have wounded."  
  
"I'll tell him. How much do they know about us?"  
  
Rodriguez shook his head. "I don't know. They speak Zapotec, I think. They recognized TelMex , but the Zaku was a shock. I told them, brown uniform good, grey uniform bad. But they knew that about the grey uniforms, of course."  
  
"Seguro.[3] In the mean time, show us what you and your men have done."  
  
In the past week, they had laid several kilometers of phone line. They hadn't done as much as Octavio Duarte had given as optimal according to the instructions from Battalion, but it wasn't bad. Franco and Chavez re- mounted their Zakus in order to walk the line, checking if the poles were secure and the cables properly placed. That took until one, when Franco told Chavez it was time to take a break.  
  
"We'll get started again in a couple of hours," she said as they walked beside a well-paved road. "Everybody stops for two hours or so around now because of the sun and the heat. Only mad dogs and Fedichos come out in this midday sun. Here's Doña Filomena's."  
  
They dismounted again beside a roadside shack that held a wooden counter, some stools, and behind the counter an older woman of indeterminate age whose graying braids were tied together at her back. Her smile revealed teeth that were edged in gold. Chavez watched Franco undo the collar of her uniform and followed suit. There were some farm workers on the other stools, dressed in dusty jeans, plaid shirts, and the white straw Stetsons that seemed to be everywhere. They were drinking beer with their food and didn't seem to find the sight of the two Jions surprising at all.  
  
"You wanted me to buy you a cemita," Chavez said.  
  
"I've changed my mind. Filomena specializes in tacos." She smiled at Filomena, who placed an orange soda in front of Franco without being asked.  
  
"I'll have the tacos too," Chavez said to Filomena. "And a Coke." As Filomena turned towards a stack of tortillas and a large vat of hot oil, he asked, "So, you said you'd tell me where you were from"  
  
Franco uncapped her drink with a bottle opener that was chained to the counter and did the same for him. "Mexico City. The slums. I went to school, but when I wasn't there I was walking between rows of cars on the streets, selling flowers, or onyx figures, or sunshades, whatever we had that week."  
  
"When did you go to Side 3?"  
  
"As soon as we had the chance. We volunteered, we weren't drafted. It was a nice change too, let me tell you. I got to go to college, we all had real jobs, and I joined the militia back when Deykun was elected."  
  
"So you've been in a long time."  
  
She gulped down half her soda. "Claro. I was proud to defend the colony when independence was declared and the Federation declared sanctions. The Federation gave us a chance, ¿verdad? but they forget their promises very quickly. First they stuffed the colonies so full of people that it was like living in Mexico again. Then they put on sanctions when Deykun said 'no more' and declared independence. He was right to do that, but he couldn't deal with the economics of the situation. So it was a good thing, I think, that the Zabis took over. They're a little crazy, but at least they can run a country."  
  
Filomena placed two plastic plates in front of them. Unlike the tacos he was used to, where the filling was in a tortilla folded in half, these were rolled, fried, and served with a sauce. Chavez took a bite and found it was spicy pork and very good. "So after the war, would you go back to Side 3 or stay here?"  
  
Franco shook her head. "I don't know. I think it'd be nice to live in Mexico again now that I'm not poor, but life on the colonies is pretty good."  
  
"Given a choice, I'd be back in California. I miss the ocean."  
  
"I grew up inland, so the colonies were fine."  
  
"Franco, everybody's-"  
  
"Call me Maria."  
  
"Maria, everybody is taking for granted that I know the origin of this company. Why are we the Falling Eagles? Shouldn't we be the Soaring Eagles or something? And why is everyone in here Mexican and from Nuevo Aztlan?"  
  
She looked at him quizzically. "Octavio didn't tell you the story?"  
  
"No."  
  
"He thinks we are more famous than we are. The word in Nahuatl for a falling eagle is cuauhtémoc. Now does the name make more sense?"  
  
Chavez nodded. "Cuauhtémoc was the last emperor of the Aztecs. He wouldn't tell Cortez where the Aztec gold was, even though Cortez had him tortured."  
  
"Specifically, he had his feet branded. Ultimately, Cortez had him hanged," Maria went on. "Our vow is to never let our homeland fall like that, no matter what we suffer. That's why we all carry this."  
  
She reached down and pulled on her right boot heel. Her boot slid off, taking most of her sock with it. She swatted some lint from her foot and lifted it up, showing him the sole. In white puckered skin was an Aztec glyph.  
  
"It means 'falling eagle'," Maria explained. "All of us in the 505th have had it branded onto our foot, to remind us." She nonchalantly slid her sock back on and stomped her boot back onto her foot.  
  
"Nobody told me to expect that."  
  
"You don't have to get it, especially since you're a pinch-hitter for us. But that's our initiation. It's not a secret, but we just don't talk about it a lot. Besides, how many people back in Side 3 are interested in what a bunch of lowly Mexicans like us are doing?" She signaled for another orange soda.  
  
"Obviously Prince Garma is."  
  
"You know him better than I. The Eagles existed as a unit back on Nuevo Aztlan before the war. Garma requested them for the drop on Mesoamerica. Kishiria was going to blend in a few companies from other colonies, because she thought that it would be better to have an integrated force. Garma said no, that we would fight for Jion better if we were protecting our motherland. That was a dangerous idea, the idea of people fighting for two motherlands, but Kishiria had already set precedent."  
  
"The 10th Panzenkaempher, right?"  
  
"The crazy Germans, yes. She had the Nuevo Koenigsburgueños in their motherland, so why not us in ours? Tavi was in on that meeting. Garma actually said to his sister, 'The only reason you're giving the 10th what they want is because they're WHITE!' Kishiria was ready to hit him, but then von Mellinthin started laughing and that was the end of it."  
  
Filomena offered Chavez some salsa. Chavez said no and thanked her. "Rodriguez mentioned rabbits in the hills. What was that all about?"  
  
"We call people who are hiding out from Federation sweeps conejos. The Federation hasn't had the ability to round up people to send them to the colonies in months, but the kind of people who become conejos don't know that. They're small farmers mostly who hid in caves and jungles to keep from being sent to space. True, it would be an easier life for them there, but they are deathly afraid of what they don't know. We tell them they don't have to go, give them some food and send them home if we can. Unfortunately, it's not always possible, and it's hard when they're Mayans from Chiapas or the like."  
  
Chavez nodded. "When all Earth is under Jion control, the Mayans won't have to hide in the hills of Tlaxcala."  
  
"Claro." As she finished her soda, Maria added, "Let's finish up with the telephone lines and then go find the rabbits."  
  
"You speak their language?"  
  
"No, I'm going to call the base and have Augustin sent out here. He's a Zapotec."  
  
They remounted and marched off back towards the telephone lines. After some consultation with Rodriguez, Chavez and Franco decided that they could make the goal given by Battalion if they helped with the digging.  
  
"Only thing is, where are we going to find shovels that big?" asked Chavez.  
  
"Pocho's got a point," Rodriguez said.[4]  
  
Franco glowered. "Listen, cabron, you give respect to the compañeros. We're the ones who make sure you have a job. Watch."  
  
She got into her Zaku and walked over to a nearby building site. She took a ten-foot length of pipe from a pile beside the half-finished cinderblock structure and made her suit kneel where the next pole was to be placed. She pushed the pipe vertically into the hard red ground, causing a creaking, groaning noise, and rotated it. Earth piled up around the sides of the hole as it widened. She pulled the pipe from the hole and pointed. "See? A few seconds."  
  
Rodriguez inspected her work. "It's too deep, but it's easier to fill a hole than dig it." He looked over at his jumpsuited workers. "Let's start filling these."  
  
Chavez took another pipe and began at the other end of the line. This was dull, but at least he had air conditioning and a pile of CDs. He started to feel queasy from the motion of making his Zaku kneel and stand, but before he knew it, he met Franco's suit in the middle of the line.  
  
"Done!" she said, and initiated skin talk. "TelMex can handle the rest tomorrow and Tavi will be happy. I called the base and Augustin should be out here in about half an hour."  
  
That meant they could stop by the side of the road for some ices. A teenaged boy sat under a plastic canopy with a trough of ice chunks in front of him, in which sat four large metal pots of ices. Chavez and Franco sat on the ground with their backs to the cool trough until a Jion military truck came zooming up.  
  
Augustin, in a khaki corporal's uniform and standard issue wide-brimmed hat, leaned out the open window. "Hola! I've got two gross of field rations and thirty drums of water in the back. Where are these rabbits?"  
  
Franco gestured with her spoon. "In those hills over there. Rodriguez said they spoke Zapotec, but he wasn't sure."  
  
"Well, I've got Otomi too, since he's sure they don't speak Mexican. Lead on."  
  
Using coordinates that Rodriguez had given them, Franco led them into the rocky hills about five miles out. There was no road here, but the vegetation was low and Augustin managed with his all-terrain truck. Eventually they found themselves in a ravine that showed signs of human habitation in the form of a few plastic bags and cans. Augustin stopped the truck and called out in Zapotec. Chavez and Franco stayed to the rear, their hands on their suits' weapons.  
  
Eventually an old man appeared at the mouth of a cave, in dirty jeans, a white shirt, and baseball cap. He stepped gingerly out towards Augustin and said something. Augustin answered and the man reached out to finger the Jion's tunic sleeve. Augustin offered him his canteen. The old man accepted it, took a good long swallow, then stepped back to the cave, gesturing to someone inside.  
  
Within the next few minutes, a good two dozen people emerged from their hiding places. Chavez and Franco lowered their Zakus to a half-reclining position and came out to join them.  
  
A young woman carried her toddler forward to Franco. Franco took the baby from her, then gave a cry of shock.  
  
Chavez came running to her. "What is it?"  
  
"This baby, he's all burned." She lowered the shawl in which the child was wrapped. "The burns themselves aren't too serious, but they're infected. We're going to have to take him back to base."  
  
Chavez walked away from her slightly, into the group. These were dictionary-definition peasants, in woven leather sandals and homespun clothes. The women had their babies in slings on their backs with their personal belongings, such as they were, in baskets. There were more burns, as well as broken limbs that had been set as well as they could, and what looked like shrapnel injuries.  
  
"The base doctors will earn their pay tonight," Augustin said, the old man by his side. "Our friends here are refugees from Oaxaca. They haven't been here long, so they aren't really conejos. They hid out successfully from the Fedichos, but their village was burned and they ran here."  
  
"What were they running from?" Chavez asked.  
  
Augustin's face fell. "Us," he said.  
  
***  
  
The injured were brought back to base in Augustin's truck. Afterwards, the three of them were called in for debriefing in Duarte's office.  
  
"From what you're telling me," Duarte said to Augustin, "these people sound like they got caught between the Compañia Benito Juarez and the Fedichos. The Benito Juarez had an encounter with a company of Fedicho tanks and aircraft to the northeast of the city of Oaxaca, about thirty kilometers from the state line with Veracruz. The people you met had a village built deep in the jungle, which they were sticking to out of fear of deportation. All of a sudden they find themselves in the path of iron, flame-throwing giants. It doesn't matter if those giants are there to keep you from having to be deported if they're smashing your homes and killing or injuring your neighbours."  
  
"Did our side win?" asked Franco somewhat sarcastically.  
  
"The Benito Juarez did repel the attack, yes, and drove the Fedichos back over their own line. I don't think that the destruction of the village was deliberate."  
  
"That's what bothers me about this story," Chavez said. "Of all Jion's forces, we should be the last ones to be randomly blasting our way across the countryside. Our people have been brutalized enough by the Fedichos. We aren't going to be able to keep our base among them secure if we lose their trust."  
  
Chavez nodded. "That's a good point. How we're going to wage war against the Federation without blasting our way across the countryside is the question, because I sure don't know how. Still, that's a question for Battalion, and I am going to ask it." He nodded. "You three are dismissed."  
  
Franco looked over at Chavez as they walked back to the living quarters. "You okay? You look like you were hit with a club."  
  
"It's been a weird day. When I went to bed last night, I just felt like a California boy who was transferred down to a foreign country. Now.up until we saw those refugees, I was having a really good time. It was fun doing something constructive for a change. But when we did see those refugees, and we heard what happened to them, all I could think was, 'How could we do this to our people?' Not to people under Jion protection, OUR people."  
  
"My husband, may he rest in peace, used to say he had a chip implanted in his head that reminded him when he wasn't in Mexico. Maybe you have one too, and never knew it."  
  
"I wouldn't go that far," Chavez told her. "I think maybe the reality of my background is starting to sink in."  
  
"Who knows? Anyway, I'm going to check in on those refugees before I turn in."  
  
"I'll join you."  
  
Meanwhile, back in the company commander's office, Duarte was summarizing the discovery of that afternoon to a man in a major's uniform up at California Base.  
  
"So that's our dilemma," Duarte said to the man, whose name was Reynaud. "We need to keep the peasants on our side, I know that some of the other Jion holdings have been having problems with guerillas. We haven't, and we want to keep it that way. Any instructions would be appreciated."  
  
At the other end of the video connection, Reynaud nodded. "Your good public relations in that area have been noticed. I'll raise the point and you'll hear back. Certainly His Royal Highness shares that kind of concern."  
  
Duarte bowed slightly. "I'm glad the Viceroy feels that way. Please pass along my appreciation."  
  
Reynaud smiled. "You'll have your chance to do that yourself. He's visiting Mexico next month."  
  
As Duarte gaped, Reynaud began to outline the details.  
  
----------------------- [1] Feddies. This is a word of my own invention. Go ahead and use it if you want. [2] Engineer, used as a title in Mexico [3] Sure. [4] A pocho, or his sister the pocha, is a Mexican who has gone north and forgotten how to be Mexican. 


	3. Chapter 3

On the 10th, Duarte sat with other company commanders in the balcony of what had once been the Mexican Congress. Below, Garma Zabi stood at the podium from which the President of the Republic would once have spoken. Behind him, the Presidential throne was now draped not only with the flag of Mexico but the red battle flag of Jion. Garma himself was dressed in a green Space Attack uniform, complete with the black velvet panels in front and cape in back.  
  
In the un-airconditioned hall, Garma must have been uncomfortable. If so, he hid it better than Duarte ever could. Octavio had to use all his discipline not to tug on the high collar of his dress tunic or squirm inside it. While his tropical uniform was the same khaki cotton as the one he wore every day, this one bore more stiff embroidery and long sleeves. He was glad of the cotton gloves he was wearing for the occasion, as his hands were moist and the gloves absorbed it. When they reached saturation, though, it was not going to be pretty.  
  
Garma spoke good Spanish. Chavez had told him that Garma did, but since it wasn't Chavez's first language, Duarte had taken that with reservations. Chavez had been correct, though. Garma was reading his speech, but before he'd begun he'd spoken to the audience without notes.  
  
From the reaction the crowd was giving him, Garma could have been speaking Croatian and reading from the phone book. Not that they were inattentive; quite the reverse. They were spellbound to the point that Duarte was quite sure they weren't hearing a word he said.  
  
It was understandable, though. Garma Zabi was impossibly beautiful. Not handsome, because his looks were too androgynous for that, but beautiful. Yet for all his good looks, perfect posture, and obvious breeding, he still had a "gosh-wow" quality about him that was very endearing. If he could bottle and sell his charisma, he'd have made a fortune.  
  
That was the point when Duarte realized that he wasn't concentrating on the speech either, but on the man who was delivering it. He hoped this was not the case when Garma gave orders on the battlefield.  
  
The strain on the young viceroy was showing at the reception shortly after. While the rest of the politicians, their wives, and other dignitaries seemed not to feel the heat and humidity generated by all those bodies, Garma looked as if he were starting to wilt. While it was if he were refusing to sweat by sheer force of will, he also looked as if the gabardine of his uniform was slowing transforming itself into a suit of lead. His eyes were a little dull, his handshakes a bit weak. Having those flashbulbs constantly going off at him couldn't have helped.  
  
"Ay, mija, isn't he the cutest thing you ever seen?" piped Luna.  
  
Provi Alcaraz snorted. "Like he'd ever look at a cholita like you."  
  
"I hear that the Zabis like surrounding themselves with the lower classes. They trust them like they don't trust the rich. A Nuevo-Aztlan princess is just what that family.oh, hello, jefe," she said as Duarte came over.  
  
"There's nothing wrong with ogling His Highness, it's part of his job to be ogled, but could you keep it down in public? I don't want the 505th to get a reputation for acting like a bunch of Chula Vista high school students."  
  
Luna made a dismissive noise. "He's coming to visit us, so he'll get a chance to see what we're really all about. Sides, he's not that far from high school himself."  
  
"You must be stressed about that, jefe," Provi said.  
  
"A little performance anxiety," Duarte admitted. "I'm sure we'll do just fine in showing ourselves off and taking care of him."  
  
The fact was that he was more than a little anxious. Garma's plans for visiting his Mexican companies were public, so even the Federation knew it. Duarte had received Intelligence reports of an increased presence of Federation ships along the Atlantic coast. The prospect of killing or capturing the beloved youngest son of the Jion monarch had to be making the Fedichos drool.  
  
Hot and uncomfortable as it was, the reception was at least a calm before the storm of actually having the Viceroy as Duarte's own responsibility. It ended soon, and the Falling Eagles took to their Zakus to escort Garma out to Teotihuacan.  
  
They met and saluted Garma as the viceroy came down the covered ramp to the hangar. "The 505th Falling Eagles presenting themselves for inspection, sir," Duarte told him.  
  
Garma returned the salute and gestured for his assistant to carry his luggage to his Zaku. Duarte noted that he carried a guitar case as well as the expected suitcase and garment bag. "Thank you, Captain Duarte y Garcia." He walked forward and proceeded to make the usual motions of inspecting the nine soldiers. He was wearing a simpler version of the uniform he'd worn inside, but the green uniform still had long sleeves and a high collar, even without the velvet cape and panels. Up close, Duarte could see that hair was clinging damply to Garma's neck and that there was just a trace of perspiration high on his forehead. He gave his approval and Duarte ordered his company to their suits.  
  
The march to the base took about an hour along major roads. Octavio had time to study Garma's suit and worry about it a bit. It was an MS-06F Commander meant for space combat, not for terrestrial or, heaven forbid, desert use. He knew the thing wouldn't have much maneuverability in gravity, not without the extra propulsion. Without the cooling packs the Desert Types had, it would probably overheat and stall quickly. If they were attacked, which fortunately was unlikely, they would have to surround and protect the prince like a pack of dogs with their young.  
  
It struck Octavio as potentially significant though, that Garma's paint scheme was olive, maroon, and grey. Green, red, and white, mixed with black. Abuelo would find some meaning in that, he was sure.  
  
Abuelo. He cringed a bit mentally. What would Garma do on meeting him? No way to keep the two apart, but he wasn't looking forward to it.  
  
They arrived at the base and walked down the macadam road to the central square, where the Zakus stood in a line. The colonel's voice spoke in Tavi's cockpit, saying in Jion-accented Spanish, "Very good, Captain. Tell your soldiers to dismount."  
  
Tavi gave the order. Ten cockpits opened and ten giant hands moved to the chest area of the mobile suits. The pilots stepped out into the palms and rode down to the ground. They stood in front of their mecha, and Tavi compared and contrasted them with their Zabi commander. They were nine men and women in sepia, short-sleeved uniforms, each with an eagle on a cactus devouring a snake on the unit patch. Brown skin, black hair and dark eyes completed their uniformity.  
  
Garma also had dark hair and eyes, but there the resemblance stopped. His skin was the pale cream of a white spacenoid. He was clearly hot and wanting to cut this as short as possible. Tavi fell in beside him and they walked again along the line of pilots. Satisfied, he allowed Tavi to dismiss the troops. Tavi gave the order and they returned to their Zakus, to walk them back to the hangar.  
  
"The colours your soldiers choose for their mobile suits are interesting," Prince Garma, said to Tavi.  
  
"The colour scheme means something to each pilot. The white one with the spots belongs to Leobardo Magadan-Ramirez. It represents Plague, that he is going to spread death through the Federation."  
  
"I see." Garma crossed his arms. "And the fellow with the musclebound Aztec warrior holding the big-breasted dead lady?"  
  
"George Villalobos. He's from southern California originally, not Mexico. And yes, he does have fuzzy dice hanging in his cockpit."  
  
Garma laughed. "And your suit?"  
  
Tavi looked up at his Zaku and smiled. "Just green, white, and red, Colonel. No more, no less. It's all I need to say." He turned his eyes to his companion. "You have traveled far today, sir. Let's put our mobile suits away and we can rest."  
  
As they left, heading for the village of geodesic domes, Garma asked, "If you want, you can just direct me towards the guest quarters."  
  
"We wouldn't dream of putting you someplace by yourself, sir. It will be the honour of my family to offer you hospitality." Tavi took Garma's bags and walked towards the village. As they approached, he became worried. Could there be any chance that Abuelo had gone to Mexico City or Puebla today, to watch lucha libre or something? Ay, Señor, he hoped so. He was trying to remember the sports schedule when the question was answered for him.  
  
Tavi's grandfather, his Abuelo, came scampering down the path with a bowl of burning copal in one hand and a cluster of bright-green quetzal feathers in the other. Even though he was in a perfectly ordinary pair of khaki pants and a white polo shirt, he managed to look like something off an Aztec carving. He was grinning widely, showing what teeth he had left. He handed the copal to Tavi and then to Tavi's horror, rushed right up to Garma and took his hand, placing the feathers in them.  
  
"So you are the viceroy. Welcome, welcome!"  
  
Garma looked stunned at first, then recovered. He remained holding Abuelo's hand in both of his own and visibly concentrated for a second before saying, "Oticmiiyohuitli, oticmociahuitli".  
  
Now it was Abuelo's turn to stare. "That is very polite of you," he said, "but that is what I should say to you, not you to me. It means 'you have been tired by your travels', and you are the one who has traveled, not I. Come along, come along."  
  
Holding Garma's hand as if he were a favourite grandchild, Abuelo proceeded down the path, chatting to him about the history of the place. Tavi shook his head and sighed. He hoped Degin Zabi's youngest son was flexible, because there was certainly more to come.  
  
Garma and Abuelo were soon in front of the Duarte home, with Abuelo introducing his new friend to Abuela and Luisa. Luisa, dressed as usual in jeans, an embroidered cotton blouse, and braids, was looking as disturbed as her husband. Abuela, in blouse, skirt, and braids now turned white, acted as if she greeted royalty every day and that it was nothing to be particularly excited about.  
  
Tavi handed the bag to Luisa and the bowl of copal to Abuela. "Abuelo, why don't we show Colonel Zabi to his room and let him rest before dinner?"  
  
"Yes, yes. He came all the way from San Diego, he was saying."  
  
Tavi led the way, followed by his guest. Just inside the door was a large framed image of the Virgin of Guadalupe, in front of which a votive candle always burned. Tavi touched the frame and crossed himself, watched in surprise as Garma did the same. They walked through the dark interior of the building to the rear, where one of the domes was divided in half, forming a small room. There was some basic bedroom furniture there. At the top was a skylight, allowing in air and illumination.  
  
"The shower is around the corner. Do not open your mouth when showering, and when you brush your teeth, use the bottled water. You could get sick if you don't. It happened to Lopez when we first came here," Tavi said.  
  
"I'll be careful."  
  
Tavi went back out towards the front. Abuela was outside with Luisa, starting the cooking in the outdoor kitchen. He poked his head into his grandparents' room and sure enough, found Abuelo sitting on the double bed, holding his chart.  
  
In spite of the crucifix over the bed, the large piece of cardboard Abuelo held was a sign of his persistent paganism. On it were clipped photos of the Jion royal family. Under each photo was pinned a notecard with a Nahua name on it, followed in some cases by a question mark.  
  
Degin Zabi was a sure thing: Ometecutli, the masculine Creator. Kishiria was Coyolxauhqui. Giren was Quetzalcoatl?, Dozel Huitzilopochtli?. As Tavi watched, Abuelo pinned the word "Cuauhtemoc" under Garma's picture.  
  
"He's finally come back to us," Abuelo beamed. "After almost 700 years, he's done it. It is a pity his cyclic fate is to die."  
  
Tavi closed the door and crossed his arms. Switching languages from Spanish to Nahuatl he said, "Abuelo, I think you're pinning too many hopes on a little white boy."  
  
"He isn't just a little white boy. He's a member of the royal family, and I saw their coming in the stars. Remember that?"  
  
"I remember. How could I forget us being loaded onto transports by the Federation and forced into space?" Octavio still seethed at the memories, even though it had been a good twelve years ago. "You looked out of the ship's window and made the grand announcement that the gods would be back, and that a challenge to the Federation was coming."  
  
"They must be gods. Who else would throw a world as a weapon?"  
  
"Looks like you've made a decision as to who our viceroy is."  
  
"Not quite a god. A prince who must be sacrificed if we're to win this war."  
  
"Abuelo, Cuauhtemoc's death didn't lead to the Mexica winning the war against the Spanish. He was hanged by Cortez and no emperors succeeded him."  
  
"Not emperors, no. But we were an autonomous and free people until the Federation conquered us, weren't we?"  
  
Abuelo's slightly watery eyes glared at him like two Zaku eyes in the dark. Tavi felt himself backing up slightly.  
  
"True, Abuelo. I've often felt that our being stationed back in Mexico was nothing short of a miracle. "  
  
"Of course it was. Now go check in on the chamaco* and make sure he's got what he needs."  
  
####  
  
Garma was fast asleep with the Duarte family dog in his arms. Octavio and his grandfather went out to go watch Luisa and Abuela cook dinner, now with the help of some of the other wives.  
  
Eventually Garma emerged, followed by the dog at his heels. He still looked a bit drowsy, and the short-sleeved khaki uniform he was now wearing didn't suit his colouration. Then again, none of the mobile suit company did, so he wasn't alone.  
  
The company snapped to attention immediately. Garma nodded. "At ease." He paused a moment as he took a seat at the end of the table and said, "Everyone act normally, please."  
  
The Eagles watched him nonetheless. Abuela flapped a towel at the dog, but Garma grabbed its collar and she relented.  
  
"It looks like Alberto's made a friend," Luisa said. She put a ceramic bowl of salsa verde on the table, followed by a basket of tortillas. Villalobos immediately reached for them, but Luna snatched them out of his way.  
  
"You let the guest have some first, cabron!"  
  
"Maybe he doesn't like chiles," Duarte heard Provi whisper back.  
  
In response, Chavez pushed the bowl of salsa closer to Garma. "Tavi's wife made this," he said in English.  
  
There was dead silence as they watched Garma dip a tortilla. The question on everybody's mind was the same: how would the gringuito respond?  
  
Garma chewed and swallowed, then said, "As I once commented to Mike over there, I don't see why people think Mexican food is so spicy. Thai.now that's hot!"  
  
The atmosphere relaxed immediately. Garma fed a bit of tortilla to Alberto, which the beige mutt gobbled down eagerly. Magadan poured Garma a shot glass of tequila and passed it to the prince with a lemon wedge and dish of salt. Luna demonstrated how to add a squeeze of lemon and a pinch of salt to the drink. Another one of the wives started putting out vegetables and another few bowls of salsa.  
  
Eventually the women put big plates of turkey in dark-brown mole sauce on the table. Everyone waited for Garma to serve himself, which he did, putting a modest amount of rice, vegetables, and mole on his plate. He gestured for the rest of them to do the same, at which point they too started loading their dishes.  
  
A few minutes into the meal, Tavi's abuela said, "The prince is very skinny. Does your father never feed you, mijo?"  
  
Garma shook his head. "I'm not a big eater."  
  
Over Tavi's shoulder, Chavez said, "Have you started eating meat, sir? That must be making your father very happy."  
  
Garma looked down at his plate guiltily. "No."  
  
Villalobos's wife looked confused. "Started eating meat? Do you only eat humbly, sir?"  
  
Luna rolled her eyes. "Of course Prince Garma's a vegetarian. Don't any of you ever read the magazines?"  
  
Duarte looked over at his commander. Garma had shrunk, suddenly reduced to just a small boy with a fussy appetite.  
  
"I suppose," Garma said slowly and deliberately in English, "that you will be reporting on my eating habits to my sister, Chavez. I was hoping that once you were re-assigned to Mexico that would all stop."  
  
Chingao, thought Duarte. This was going to be a nightmare. Chavez was exchanging an embarrassed look with Maria Franco. Garma returned to his dinner, picking gently at it with his fork.  
  
After a few moments, one of the guys brought up futbol scores and they spent the rest of the evening discussing sports.  
  
Later that night, after Garma had turned in, Duarte called Chavez in to his office.  
  
"Is there something you're not telling me?" he asked.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"About you and the viceroy. It sounds as if you two know each other."  
  
"That." Chavez sat down. "Princess Kishiria likes to know what Garma is doing. When I was sent to Earth initially, I was requested by the general, as the colonel's superior officer, to keep an eye on him, to make sure he was all right."  
  
"That's very unusual. She doesn't trust him?  
  
Chavez shook his head. "It's not that. He's 20, Octavio, and a young 20 at that. I was asked to look after him, to make sure he ate and slept and to report back to Kishiria if he did anything potentially.er.."  
  
"Potentially what?"  
  
Chavez visibly weighed his words. "His Royal Highness has a tendency to take risks. I and several others were to make sure he didn't."  
  
"I'd be upset too."  
  
Chavez nodded. "And I spoke out of turn. I was his minder then; I'm not now. He's a sweet kid, though, and very scared underneath that know-it-all exterior. I think he'll grow up well, if he's given a chance."  
  
"Do you think that's likely?"  
  
"That he'll grow up or be given a chance?"  
  
"Either."  
  
"Sadly, I don't know."  
  
Duarte nodded. "Well, here's what I want you to do. Avoid crossing the Viceroy, comprende? If he's paranoid about you being a spy for his sister, and if I were in his shoes I would be, just don't make him feel any worse."  
  
That little interview done, Octavio called it a night. He re-entered his home to find his grandparents sitting in the living room, watching television and eating ice cream. Garma's bedroom light was off. He could hear the sound of his and Luisa's bedroom raido. He loosened his collar and went into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water from the cooler. He was leaning against the sink and thinking about getting some ice cream too when his Abuelo walked in, grinning his "I have a prophecy" grin.  
  
"What is it now?" Octavio asked.  
  
Abuelo switched to Nahuatl. "Perhaps our little prince is not Cuauhtémoc as I thought. He said that he intends to lead his people."  
  
"Princes do that."  
  
"His mother died in childbirth, you know."  
  
Octavio finished his glass and turned to pour another one. This was getting stupid, even if he did believe Abuelo was a prophet. "Really."  
  
"That and the rivalry with his sister point to his being Huitzilopochtli."  
  
"And do you think he will lead us to a new home on a planet where we will find an eagle on a maguey, devouring a snake too?"  
  
"I don't think the gods have to repeat their own legends. They will give us new ones, taking us from this Sun to the next."  
  
"Taking us from the Quinto Sol to the Sexto.Abuelo, I think that maybe you really are putting too many hopes on that little white boy."  
  
"He'll surprise us. Just wait, mijo. You'll see."  
  
The next morning, Garma appeared at the breakfast table in shorts and a t- shirt, looking ashen. He was holding one hand to his stomach.  
  
"I think your troops better go on patrol without me," he said, "I forgot to use the bottled water last night when I brushed my teeth. I gave myself turista[1]."  
  
Tavi shot an "I told you so," glance at Abuelo and went to get a bottle of Immodium.  
  
*****Author's Notes****  
  
A transition chapter, I know. For some reason this one was like pulling teeth, which is why it took so long. That and I finally landed myself a job while still teaching a class, so I've been busy.  
  
A word on Mexican mythology, which none of my characters are going to get a chance to really explain. Huitzilopochtli et al are from the legend of the founding of Mexico. The grandmother of the gods, Coatlicue, (serpent skirt) was sweeping a temple one afternoon. As she swept, she found a soft, fluffy ball of feathers which she picked up and put into the pocket of her apron. Some time later, her children, came into the temple. Her daughter Coyolxauqui (painted with bells) pointed out that their mother was pregnant, that she had shamed them, and should die. Coatlicue's protests that no, it was the ball of feathers that had absorbed into her body, fell on deaf ears.  
  
As her children went to attack her, the god Huitzilopochtli (hummingbird) suddenly burst from her body, full-grown, to defend his mother. Although the legends don't specifically say that this killed Coatlicue, and why protect a dead mother, she does vanish from the story at this point. Huitzilopochtli went to war against Coyolxauqui, and defeated her, cutting her body into pieces. These were scattered through the skies to make the stars, with her head being the Moon.  
  
Huitzilopochtli then went to take his people, the Mexica, from where they lived in Aztlan (thought to be what is now the American Southwest) to a new promised land. He prophecied that their wanderings would end when they saw an eagle standing on a maguey (cactus), devouring a snake. After many years they found this sight in a swamp, which they drained and began to turn into a city, Tenochtitlan. Today it is Mexico City and a statue of the eagle's dinner stands on the spot where it was seen, and it is the crest on the flag of Mexico.  
  
The creator Olmetecutli, is an old god whose cult was pretty much in disuse by the time the Spanish came. He had been displaced by the more famous Quetzalcoatl, who while not a creator per se, was a powerful wizard and technical genius. In some versions, he is benevolent, not wishing human sacrifices, but in others he demands them. I've seen and photographed a large altar to him in Cholula in Puebla. The Cholulan Pyramid is something I recommend to everyone who is heading down to Central Mexico, although if you are able to get to Teotihuacan (where the home base of the 505th is located) that is even more spectacular, and fully excavated.  
  
----------------------- *Chamaco: Mexican Spanish for "kid". [1] What is usually referred to as "Montezuma's Revenge." However, this is considered a highly offensive term in Mexico, and the proper one is "turista" as given here. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dr. Alfonso Morales exited Garma's room, closing the door behind him and taking Octavio by the arm. "It's more than just [i]turista[/i]. He seems to have picked up a virus as well. There's not much we can do, really, besides what your grandmother here has been doing. Keep feeding him tortillas with salt and spearmint tea. As long as he doesn't get dehydrated, he should get over this fairly soon."  
  
"Should I inform Kishiria?"  
  
Morales noticed that he was still wearing his stethoscope and took it off. "I don't see why. It will pass soon enough. Just let him get enough rest."  
  
Duarte thanked the doctor, who left. Duarte went out into the kitchen for a last glass of water before going to work. Abuelo was out. Abuela was hand-sewing some clothes in the living room. Luisa was still washing the breakfast dishes. He stopped to give her a kiss and fetched his hat.  
  
When Octavio entered the hangar, he was soon met by Pablito. The pint- sized mechanic was cleaning some of his tools when he asked, "Hey, did Garma manage to tell you anything about new mobile suits in between runs to the bathroom?"  
  
Tavi looked down at his cousin and pointed to Garma's MS-06F. "Does that look like the most recent model to you? No, he hasn't said anything  
  
"Damn. Well, let me know if he does. I've been reading about the new [i]Goufs[/i], man, they sound cool."  
  
"I'm sure Ranba Ral in Southeast Asia will enjoy them," Chavez added, coming up behind them with a can of the local grape soda in his hand. "That was the last piece of information I heard in California Base."  
  
"Ranba Ral? Who's he? Garma's the [i][pinché[/i] viceroy, for Christ's sake. They gotta give him one of the new mobile suits. They're making it in California Base, right under his nose."  
  
Chavez shrugged. "Don't you think he would have one by now, instead of that antique?"  
  
"That's bad news," signed Pablito.  
  
"Well, I'll give you some good news, then," Duarte said. "Today's more ground exercises. Everybody to the briefing room."  
  
"Don't be making no extra work for me!" Pablito called after his cousin as he vanished from sight.  
  
***  
  
Another day, another bone-bruising session of avoiding vans, burros, and archaeological sites. Duarte came home rumpled and exhausted, coming down from his usual adrenaline high. On returning to the house, Duarte went straight to Garma's room. The visit was turning out to be a complete hash, so the least he could do was make sure the boy was all right. Duarte could tell this was a person who did not like being reduced to a helpless, infantile state. He prepared for a sulky and demoralized young prince and knocked.  
  
Duarte entered on Garma's "Come in!" Inside, the viceroy was sitting up in bed. He still looked slightly green and his tan-brown t-shirt had sweat stains under the arms. Nonetheless, he had a stack of photos and documents on the covers in front of him and his laptop was open by his side.  
  
"Has your fever left you, sir?"  
  
"Almost. The herb teas are helping." Garma laid some surveillance photos in a row in front of Duarte. "I've been looking at these. They're spy satellite shots of the Feddie bases outside Oaxaca."  
  
Duarte pulled the chair to beside the bed and looked at them, nodding. He chose to say nothing, unsure of where Garma was going with this.  
  
"I notice that their defenses seem rather weak. Look. They have a good number of aircraft, but they're mostly Tin Cod. They have some Fly Manthas, and even one is bad news, but I notice they keep them towards the shore, probably so they can scramble them against the port of Veracruz. Since we hold Veracruz, the Feddies must want it back, seeing as it starts the invasion route into the Valley of Mexico. It seems to me they're arranging their offenses for that possibility." Garma's finger tapped lightly at several points on the glossy color pictures, as if by punctuating his statements he was entering them into unshakable reality.  
  
"What are you suggesting, sir?"  
  
Garma looked up at Duarte, smiling with boyish innocence. . .and mischief. "Oaxaca. I think we could liberate it."  
  
"Sir!" Duarte felt himself break out into a sweat. What was this crazy [i]chamaco[/i] planning?  
  
"Not us alone, of course. We'd have to engage our friends the Benito Juarez. I was supposed to visit them next anyway. We need to protect that warm-water port and it bothers me that the Feddies are sitting so close. Oaxaca is the southernmost major city in Mexico, and I think it would benefit us to free it and push the Feddies back into Maya territory. Let the current crop of Zapatistas handle them. They're tough guys."  
  
"Have you run this plan past Princess Kishiria?" Duarte had a sudden nightmare image of being at the receiving ends of one of Kishiria's infuriated screeds, the nut of which would be, "What the HELL did you let my baby brother just DO?"  
  
Garma snorted. "Why? I'm the ruler here, not she. What's the point of me even being here as commander of the North American forces if all orders have to bypass me and go straight to her? Believe me, Colonel M'Quve in Eastern Europe doesn't have to, and he handles more activity than the simple liberation of a city. Tavi," Garma leaned conspiratorially towards Duarte. "We have the weaponry, the insight, and the heart. Furthermore, the Feddies won't be expecting it; they're expecting to wage the offensive against us first. We can do this. For Mexico."  
  
Duarte weighed his words carefully. "This is the land of my birth. However I'm sworn to defend the Jion throne."  
  
"I understand that, and as its representative, I appreciate your words. But I also know that you were one of the immigrants forced to Side 3 and I have no illusions that this," he gestured to the window, "is where your heart truly lies. Better we hold it than the Fedichos, ¿verdad?"  
  
Duarte nodded. "Yes." He frowned. "How did you know about my being one of the forced immigrants? Have you been reading my files?"  
  
"Nothing so crass," Garma assured him with a smile. "Your grandfather told me. He's been keeping me company and telling me all kinds of things."  
  
[i]Ay, carajo[/i], thought Duarte to himself. "Good. I wouldn't want you to be lonely or bored."  
  
"I'm not. Everyone's been very kind." Garma was quiet for a moment, and then got a strange, uncomfortable expression on his face. He whisked the covers off and swung his bare feet to the floor. "Excuse me."  
  
Duarte watched Garma scamper out towards the bathroom. He turned to the photographs and picked one up. He'd seen them all before, of course; he had this set and several others in his office. He'd always looked at them for signs of unusual movement, of more supplies being brought in or of new aircraft. He'd never examined them from an offensive standpoint because he'd never been told to, and he preferred to stick faithfully to his orders.  
  
But now, looking at the placement of the bases, he could see what Garma did. The Fedichos were arranged for a fast strike on Veracruz. Oaxaca was far from wide open, but it could be taken, yes. That would push back the line of defense and move the Fedichos back towards Jaburo. Then, they could stay as a united force with the Benito Juarez in Oaxaca to protect against the inevitable counter-strike.  
  
This couldn't wait even long enough for Garma to finish flushing the john. Duarte grabbed a handful of photos and headed immediately for the Falling Eagles' TOC.  
  
***  
  
"Incredible," Leobardo Magadan said as Duarte showed Garma's intelligence photos on the overhead projector. "It's so obvious that this is possible."  
  
"It gets better," said Duarte. "What we stand to do is drive the Fedichos down from Oaxaca State into Chiapas or Tabasco. It won't send them out of Mexico completely, but it'll send them into some very unpleasant territory to face some very unpleasant people."  
  
"Those Fedichos won't be Earth elite," Lopez said. "They'll be spacenoids mostly. The unpaved roads, the jungle, the mud.they'll be like lost children down there."  
  
"Even if they're Earth elite they're screwed," Chavez said. "You won't see this SoCal surfer in the bush."  
  
"At least they'd be smart enough not to drink the water, unlike some people we know," Magadan quipped.  
  
"You talking about me or Garma?" asked Villalobos.  
  
"Be that as it may," Duarte said, "we're not going to pursue them until they're backed up against the rough terrain. We're just going to drive them down to where they have no place to land their planes, so they'll have no choice but to retreat to their next airbase, which as far as we know is Jaburo."  
  
"Oaxaca's the southernmost major city anyway," said Hernandez. "Nobody would call San Cristobal de las Casas all that useful for supplies."  
  
"Well the point is not so much just to drive out the Feddies from a usable city," Duarte said. "It's to push the Feddies away from Veracruz, which we expect to become even more important to our efforts as the war goes on. Our naval power is increasing, remember." He looked to the side. "Luna. You've been unusually quiet."  
  
"Yeah, you didn't even defend Garma when Villalobos made his [i]turista[/i] joke," said Provi Alcaraz.  
  
Luna looked up from her desk, her eyes uncharacteristically sad. "This is so much more important than that. It's even more than keeping Veracruz out of Fedicho hands. We all know what the Fedichos are like when they occupy a place. We've seen how afraid the [i]Conejos[/i] always are of them, the condition they're in when we find them. I've always thought of how much suffering must be going on there. I'm glad to hear these plans, for the sake of the people in the city." She smiled a little nastily. "So what's our approach going to be, and how are we going to act when we get there?"  
  
***  
  
Oaxaca sits on a plateau within the junction of four valleys. The airport that had been converted by the Federation into a base sat directly south of the city, nestled between the grooves of the Ocotlan and Tlacolula valleys. Regular patrols made it easy to tell what was going on to the northeast, just over the Jion/Federation border where the Benito Juarez guarded the approach to Veracruz.  
  
However, it was impossible for them to be looking in all directions at all times, especially when confronted with the news that squadrons of Dopp fighters and Gattle bombers had come tearing in from over the Gulf of Mexico to attack the airfield itself. It was a further unwelcome surprise when five [i]Zakus[/i] suddenly came into sight from the northwest. Even more surprising was the fact that the five [i]Zakus[/i] were led by an MS- 06F, bearing the crest of one of the royal family.  
  
Despite the surprise attack, the Federation base managed to get what planes they could into the air. From where Chavez sat, close behind Duarte's suit, flanked by Luna's, he could see Tin Cods and Fly Manthas going up. One craft about every two minutes, and some had been in the air even before the battle started, he was sure. From what he'd been told, there would be armour behind, Type 61s, known for doing serious damage to a [i]Zaku[/i] if they hit with one of their twin 150mm main guns.  
  
Chavez knew Duarte was chewing glass over this. Pushing back the Fedichos would be a great triumph, but the knowledge they were doing it with the favourite child of Degin Zabi leading the assault was not comforting.  
  
They hadn't had much of a chance to practice, not with Garma at any rate. He'd worked with them as much as they could in the short time they had, and he'd done well. The problem was that his suit was not the right tool for the job. The MS-06F was meant for space use, and its cooling systems and joints were badly tested by the Mexican late-spring climate.  
  
"Don't worry," Garma had told Duarte, "I've got an angle."  
  
Sgt. Maria Franco marched her mobile suit into the assault with her usual resigned calm. She was eager to take out aircraft, with her [i]Zaku[/i]'s 105mm cannon at the ready. When the first planes appeared, the gun was up and out. She kept her eyes unblinkingly on the sights and her thumb unerringly on the "fire" button; the rhythmic roar of the high-velocity rounds spraying into the sky was calming. Each explosion above her head she dedicated to her fallen friends, and for her husband. Maria wasn't a particularly vengeful woman, but this was not something she would deny herself in the name of forgiveness.  
  
The ground force rolled up to support the aerial ones, despite being at a disadvantage: the Jion held the high ground. Duarte turned to his radio and said, "Alcaraz! You and your team hang back and take care of those Fedicho aircraft from behind us. Leave the tanks to the Gattles; we'll finish off what's left."  
  
Shielding their cockpits, Duarte's team moved forward. At least on Earth radar worked because of the lack of Minovsky particles. If it hadn't been for that, they'd have been close to blind from the smoke and dust in the dun-coloured air. His other suits were sticking close enough together for skin talk as needed. Their advantage over the tanks was height, but it was not easy defending against the Fly Manthas above and the Type 61s below, even if the Fly Manthas' numbers (he had counted about twenty to start) were being thinned and distracted by the Dopps. Nonetheless, they kept their grim march moving forward, making careful use of crackers against the tanks when they could free up one hand.  
  
Sixty tanks to start with. The Gattle were good at hitting their moving targets, but that still meant only about ten down. There was an explosion to Duarte's left.  
  
"Magadan! Was that you?" He saw a [i]Zaku[/i] spilling end over end as it rolled down the hill in an avalanche of steel, soil, and toppled trees. The scene obscured when the [i]Zaku[/i] stopped its descent with an outstretched arm.  
  
"Yes, Captain. I'm hit in my right arm, it's disabled, but I'm okay."  
  
"Fall back." Duarte opened another channel. "Lopez, I need you to change place with Magadan."  
  
"Yes, sir." Lopez's [i]Zaku[/i] came jogging up from behind. It was still firing upwards when a shot from a Type 61 hit him square in the cockpit; the armored canopy sprouted two mushroomed holes before a wash of flame spread across the [i]Zaku[/i]'s distintegrating torso. The explosion sent two other suits flying, but hopefully not to a similar fate. Duarte leaned forward. No, they were picking themselves up again. One was Villalobos, the other Hernandez. He couldn't tell what condition they were in.  
  
"Duarte, I'm sorry!" Garma's voice called through his speakers.  
  
"We'll deal with it later, Your Highness." No time for a bereavement therapy session now. "I see over twenty tanks and only about six fighters over head. Keep going!"  
  
Garma's mobile suit had been slowing steadily during the fray although the Vulcan cannons mounted in his [i]Zaku[/i]'s head were turning out to be a real advantage against the aircraft. It was impossible for his paint job to have gone unnoticed, and there was a blast from a Type 61. The [i]Zaku[/i] went down, toppling into a river. There was a huge boiling in the water as a blast of white smoke erupted from the riverbed.  
  
There was dead silence for a moment from the Falling Eagles. Even the Federation assault slowed in confusion.  
  
"Stay the course!" Duarte commanded. Nonetheless, he saw that four of the tanks were going over to the river in order to confirm what had happened. He leaned on the trigger of his [i]Zaku[/i] cannon with one hand and let loose with another grenade, stopping them.  
  
The Federation soon appeared puffed with confidence on seeing Garma's [i]Zaku[/i] fall. Their attack was still fierce, but careless now, assured of victory. In spite of their confidence, the Cuauhtemocs began to drive them back as they struck rough terrain that they'd made careful note of earlier, their tanks foundering in the hillocks and riverbeds, their maneuverability shot. As at the battle of Puebla in 1862, the Mexicans had counted on the Federation not being prepared for the rough. It was a gamble, but it paid off.  
  
The Federation forces had to have decided they were beaten, because they began a fighting retreat down the Valley of Tlacolula., away from the base they were unable to reach.  
  
"Did it work?" asked a familiar voice in Duarte's cockpit.  
  
"Yes sir, it did. You almost had me fooled. What did you--?"  
  
"I knew my suit was going to overheat, so I plunged it into the river, let all the cooling systems vent at once, and climbed into my normal suit to wait." Like the 505th, Garma had gone into battle in his shirtsleeves. "I'm sorry if I frightened you. Now let's lead that charge onto the plateau and finish this little adventure off, shall we?"  
  
By the end of the day, the 505th stood at the Federation base south of the city. By sundown, Garma stood outside of his muck-covered [i]Zaku[/i], watching as prisoners were brought to him.  
  
"What will be done with them, sir?" Duarte asked.  
  
Garma stared into the faces of grimy, grey-clad soldiers. "We'll fly them to California Base for interrogation. I will decide what to do with them from there.  
  
The fear on the prisoners' faces was very real. Duarte saw Garma smile at it. The lad was five foot eight in boots, and as beautiful as a girl. To inspire fear must be a rare and heady thing for him.  
  
But Chavez and his team had yet another. Chavez exited his [i]Zaku[/i] and crossed the tarmac to Garma. He knelt on one knee and said, "Your Highness, it is my great pleasure to announce that the city is yours."  
  
Garma threw his head back and laughed. . .but all Duarte could see was Lopez's dead suit, and he wondered if this had been worth it at all.  
  
***  
  
Oaxaca had come back to life. Its citizens stood along the main street in front of their brightly-painted colonial buildings, cheering the Jion liberators. People threw flower petals from their wrought-iron balconies as dogs barked from rooftops.  
  
Duarte tried to absorb all this attention while clinging to the pommel of his saddle, trying to not fall off his horse. He had expected Garma to use one of the base jeeps for his entry into Oaxaca, or to ride in an open tank like Fidel Castro. Instead, the viceroy had insisted on riding horseback. "Much more Simon de Bolivar," he'd explained. Luna had not wasted time in explaining that riding horses was one of Garma's hobbies.  
  
Duarte and Garma were towards the end of a line begun with Jion troops in jeeps and trucks, followed by several rows of light armour, then finally Garma and Duarte on horseback with the Eagles and the Benito Juarez in personnel carriers behind them. A few large military police rode along with Garma, keeping back the hands that reached out to touch the prince or his horse.  
  
No one asked about the empty third horse that Duarte led by the reins with a hand. Boots were stuck backwards into the stirrups.  
  
People were throwing flowers down under the hooves of Duarte's mount too, which was strange enough for him. Garma looked as if he was not only used to this kind of adulation but soaking it in like a sponge. He wore the short-sleeved khaki uniform he'd been using since his arrival, including the white canvas hat which was now heavily covered with flower petals. Beneath it, his grin was enormous.  
  
The parade wound its way to the centre of town. Duarte was very grateful to see the cathedral looming in front of them because even Garma wasn't going to be so showy as to ride his horse into the church itself. He rode through the gates to the great colonial double doors where he dismounted, handed his reins to a soldier, and then passed his hat to him too. From there, Garma and his troops walked down the aisle, with Garma reaching out his hand to touch the fingers extended towards him from the pews.  
  
As with any Mexican celebration, it was unthinkable that a mass not be said. Duarte and the other officers stood to the right of the nave, and were grateful to be doing so. Garma knelt on the flagstones in front of the altar rail. Glancing around, Duarte could make out that people were murmuring approvingly about their viceroy. Clever Garma. Duarte had figured out that being royal involved heavy amounts of theatre, and he wondered what spectacles the other Zabis were prone to producing. Garma had now presented himself as king and conqueror, so what was next?  
  
Judge. As evening started to fall, Garma arranged himself comfortably in the courtyard of a 17th century home near the zocalo. Colonial chairs were made small, so even in the ornate oaken monstrosity in which he was sitting, Garma looked comfortable. He'd changed from the khaki uniform into his greens again and looked particularly official with his white gloves and tall boots. The flags of Jion and Mexico hung on poles on either side of him.  
  
He looked impressive to Duarte, so he couldn't imagine what impression he was making to the group of peasants who were standing in front of him as supplicants. They looked much like the peasants in the areas occupied by the 505th, with the men in work clothes with white straw Stetsons. The women made the difference, as they all wore the traditional Oaxaca headdress, a heavy colourful scarf folded into a square and pinned atop the hair with the rest of the scarf hanging down their backs.  
  
The mayor of Oaxaca, clad in a neat blue suit and sash of office, said to Garma, "These indigenous people have a case they would like to put in front of you, sir."  
  
Garma nodded and gestured for them to approach. An older man and his wife were the spokespeople for the group. The woman carried a blue and red woven shopping bag that contained something heavy.  
  
"My name is Pascual Mazatl Gomez," he said, taking off his hat and holding it uneasily in front of him. "My co-citizens and I are here to ask Your Highness to give back what is ours."  
  
His wife started to approach, whereupon two Jion soldiers stepped forward and crossed their weapons in front of her. Garma glowered at them slightly and asked in English, "Wasn't that bag properly inspected before they all came in?"  
  
One of the soliders turned his helmeted head towards the prince. "Yes sir, but-"  
  
"Then let her approach. I should be able to trust in my own security, shouldn't I?"  
  
The soldiers backed up. The woman came over and reached into the bag. She pulled out a weathered metal box that bore more than a few traces of red earth on it. To Duarte, it seemed that the box had been buried, and suddenly he knew what was in it.  
  
He leaned forward and whispered into Garma's ear, "Take these very seriously, sir."  
  
Garma reached forward for the box. The woman immediately whisked her scarf from her head, placed it under the box, and handed it to him so that he wouldn't dirty his slacks.  
  
Garma opened the box and removed the first of several papers that were folded into tight squares and tied with cords. He began handing them to the officers around him. Duarte picked at the knot for a moment before the fragile cord disintegrated, and the others around him had the same result.  
  
Someone turned on the string of white lightbulbs that were hanging around the perimeter of the courtyard. Garma took one of the papers and squinted at it.  
  
"All I can see is the date," he admitted. "1670." He tipped his head to the side, examining the writing, then said, "What are they?"  
  
"From the looks of them, and the way they were buried, deeds of land ownership."  
  
"I will adjourn to a better lighted room. See to it that these people have a comfortable place to wait, some coffee and so on."  
  
The room selected was a dining room, but even here lamps had to be put on the table. Garma spread the documents out, holding them gingerly with his gloved fingertips. Finally he said, "I can't read this. It's too spidery."  
  
"Permit me, sir." A young priest in civilian clothes who had been watching the procedures came over to the table. "I took my degree at the UNAM in Mexico City, and I had some classes in colonial writing." He glanced at the documents over Garma's shoulder.  
  
"They're land deeds, as Captain Duarte said. What has happened here is a story that is repeated in Mexican history. The Spanish deeded land to the indigenous peoples, and were very careful to document this. The indigenous peoples, not being very trusting, made sure to keep the deeds buried safely. In the 19th century, the Mexican government for the first time took their lands away from them, and they were only restored by the Archduke Maximilian when he was installed as emperor by Napoleon III. In the early 20th century, their lands were seized again, and the one who took their side was Emiliano Zapata, who led their uprising. Now, the Federation took their land."  
  
"Then it sounds as if it's my turn to restore it." He looked up at the mayor. "I'll need lawyers to write up the documents assuring them that the Jion crown is restoring the land this time." He smiled over at Duarte. "And it falls to you to be the ones to guard it, in the name of my father."  
  
"It will be our honour, sir."  
  
Garma returned to the courtyard. It was solidly night now, and the exposed lightbulbs cast shadows that kept the people and objects within half shrouded in darkness. Garma took his seat again, and in a few minutes, the native petitioners were led into his presence.  
  
"My people, good citizens of Oaxaca," he began, "you have suffered a great injustice. It is, I'm afraid, the key of Federation policy to force people off their land and then take it. It is a theft not only of one's property but of one's past, one's identity, and one's heart.  
  
"Therefore, I am pleased to tell you that I am honouring these land grants that were made up for you by the Spanish so long ago."  
  
Duarte watched as the faces of the Oaxacans lit up, the wife of the head man grabbing her husband's arm. Had they been expecting rejection?  
  
"I am giving back the deeds for safekeeping," Garma went on, gesturing for the box to be brought to the people, "but don't bury them again yet. You'll need to add some documents from me to them first. I'm signing that land to you in perpetuity, to be supported by the military forces under my command. As long as I can back up the promise, the land is forever yours."  
  
The head man stepped forward and reached out a hand. Garma extended his own hand and allowed him to kiss the back of it. The others followed.  
  
They remained in Oaxaca for another week. The 505th, along with the Benito Juarez, hung around and soaked in the adulation, soured though it was by losing Lopez, which only Garma had seemed to have forgotten. At every turn there were free clothes, free food, and free booze. Garma was busy of course, still hearing land claim cases now that it was known he was amenable. He also found himself carrying out one duty he had not expected as he was asked over and over to serve as godfather to Oaxaca's newborns. To Duarte's amusement, he split his time between the city hall and the cathedral's baptismal font.  
  
"We can afford to just drink this all up," said Franco as she, Villalobos, and Provi Alcaraz enjoyed a round of free chocolate in a café, "We go home in a couple of days and it's up to the Benito Juarez to hold the line."  
  
"[i]Those[/i] guys," snorted Villalobos, "couldn't hold their tequila without having their daddies holding the limes for them." He downed his chocolate in a single swallow. "The Fedichos will come back and hack their manhoods off with shovels."  
  
He pointedly ignored some of the dirty looks others in the café were giving him. Franco touched Villalobos' arm in warning. "What is the [i]matter[/i] with you, 'Lobo? You [i]trying[/i] to get us kicked out of here?"  
  
Villalobos' eyes were angry. "What's the point in [i]staying[/i], [i]compañera[/i]? We did all the bleeding for this place, but we don't get to keep it? We lost Lopez taking it, and all we're going to do is fall back and leave it to a bunch of half-rates? Why'd we [i]stop[/i]? We could've kept going!"  
  
Provi Alcaraz chuckled into her mug. "And done what? Gotten the [i]Zakus[/i] sandsucked in a Belize swamp or a Guatemalan jungle? Only comfort there'd be that the Feds wouldn't have to shoot us to take us out."  
  
Villalobos was not amused. "You saying this was a waste of ammo, too?"  
  
Alcaraz shook her head. "Never sayin' that. Just 'spensive, was all." And with that, she went silent again.  
  
Franco knew that Villalobos' point about Lopez was the root of this matter. "'Lobo, we're going back to where we came from because there's no one else there. The Fedichos will come back, but the rules don't say they gotta come back [i]here[/i], [i]mijo[/i]. Don't you got a wife back at the base?"  
  
[i]That[/i] shut him up, but anyone could see what was going on in Villalobos' mind as they sat there, silent.  
  
[i]Garma comes and goes, and so do we, but when will get to STAY[/i]?  
  
***  
  
Those days passed and they made a return to Teotihuacan. The 505th stayed on alert, but life returned to normal. During the time they had been in Oaxaca, there had been no sign of Federation resurgents creeping into the area. It seemed that the Federation was more than happy to leave that piece of Mexico to the spacenoids.  
  
The morning after their return, Duarte woke up comfortably beside Luisa. He rolled onto his back and had the urge to dress immediately. After placing a kiss on her shoulder in case she was awake, he put on jeans and a white t-shirt and headed outside.  
  
The day was already bright, with a little mist high above the ruins. Duarte walked down the big stone plaza, heading towards the Temple of the Sun. Eventually he heard the sound of a guitar and realized to his dismay that it was coming from the summit. He stopped, stretched his quadriceps several times, and started climbing.  
  
It was Garma, sitting with the Duarte family dog by his side, playing the guitar he'd brought with him.  
  
La luna me dice una cosa,  
  
Las estrellas me digan una otra,  
  
Y la luz del día me canta  
  
Esta triste canción  
  
Esta triste canción.  
  
Los besos que me diste mi amor  
  
Son los que me estan matando  
  
Ya las lagrimas me estan secando  
  
Con mi pistola y mi corazón  
  
Y aqui siempre paso la vida con  
  
La pistola y el corazón.*  
  
"Pretty melancholy song for a guy like you who just freed Oaxaca," Duarte panted as he reached the top of the pyramid. "Hey.how'd you get Alberto up here?"  
  
"He followed me. I'm going to have to carry him downstairs in my backpack, though. Those stairs are as steep as a ladder." Garma scratched the dog's furry ears.  
  
"So, mind if I join you?"  
  
"As long as you don't have an obsidian blade in your back pocket." Garma watched as Duarte settled down beside him on the rubble-covered top of the pyramid. "I've got a few things to kill my good mood, so I'm up here hiding from them for a little longer. First, I sent off The Letter to Lopez's family in Nuevo Aztlan last night. The times I've done that before, it's just been me signing a form for a soldier who chances are I've never met. This was personal; I know his family's names, I've seen their pictures. So that was hard. I don't think, 'Your son is a hero' will go down very well, even if it is completely true."  
  
Octavio nodded, noting the melancholy tone of Garma's voice, and he kicked himself mentally. He didn't forget after all. Garma didn't forget, in the middle of his triumph, what it had cost to gain. "I will be sending my own as well."  
  
"I'm very worried about something, Tavi. That attack went far too easily. We took almost no casualties. That's good, but it implies some unpleasant things."  
  
"Specifically?"  
  
"I heard from Intel last night. There are more Feddies in this area than we previously thought." Garma made the comment so offhandedly that at first, Duarte didn't catch the implication. Then. . .  
  
Shock made Duarte's voice crack as he exclaimed, "What?"  
  
"The information is already in your inbox. It looks as if they have been pulling their forces away from Oaxaca, in order to begin an assault on Veracruz. They need that warm-water port more than we do, after all, although that's changing as we build our own navy. Ultimately, our freeing Oaxaca may just have been a feel-good gesture.and that is NOT what I came here to do!"  
  
Duarte started a little at the steel in Garma's voice and the anger in the younger man's eyes. "So what do you propose, Your Highness?"  
  
"Unfortunately, I'll be able to advise from California only. My time here is up. I leave Mexico tomorrow. I would stay if I could, but it appears that I will have to leave you to defend against this larger Fedicho force on your own."  
  
Duarte felt his heart sink. "Sir."  
  
"I'm so, so sorry about this, Duarte. I don't even have any mobile suits to give you. But you know that."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"It's not fair and not right, but that's out of my hands. My older siblings control where the mobile suits being built under my own nose go. There is only one thing I can offer you, to put you under my protection."  
  
That night, a rectangle of tall torches marked off the area for the ceremony. Once again, the 505th were in their dress uniforms in the muggy heat of the Mexican night, but this time their families were there to watch. Garma, seated yet again in an ornate colonial chair, held Duarte's hands between his own as Duarte knelt in front of him, reciting the oath of fealty on behalf of his company.  
  
"I, Octavio Duarte Garcia, do swear myself as a liegeman to you, of life and limb and every earthly worship, against all manner of folk. So help me God."  
  
"So help him, Our Lady of Guadalupe!" someone cried out from the rear.  
  
"Amen!" came the response to the cry.  
  
Garma leaned down to kiss Duarte on the cheek and raised him to his feet. Standing, he put his hand on Duarte's shoulder and said, "As a member of the royal family, I have the right to declare a company as being my very own. You have all proven yourselves worthy of this honour, so I bestow upon you the title of 'royal' and the privilege of being known as the Prince Garmas. Let the Royal Cuauhtemocs continue to terrorize the Federation until the day when they fall down beneath our feet!"  
  
"[i]¡Viva el principe Garma de Jion![/i]" shouted Chavez.  
  
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"  
  
"[i]¡Viva[/i] Degin Rey!"  
  
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"  
  
"[i]¡Viva la familia real![/i]"  
  
"[i]¡Que viva![/i]"  
  
Even in the orange light of the torches, it was clear that Garma Zabi was blushing.  
  
Authors notes: As we say in French, this chapter was "une grande misère" to write. I've done at least one space battle in "Gundam: Reconciliation" but this was the first time I've attempted a land one, and in territory that actually exists. I rapidly found myself in a quagmire of ignorance. Zinegata and His Divine Shadow hand-held, advised, and encouraged in a way that was pretty close to "above and beyond the call of duty" in my opinion, and I am very, very, very grateful to the both of them for it.  
  
Zinegata corrected the aircraft I used, replacing the Dodai with Gattle, gave me tips on how to "colour-commentate" on a battle, and reminded me constantly to keep score of kills. His Divine Shadow, in the face of craziness at work and a nasty computer crash which has slowed down his OWN fanfic, took the time to edit what I'd written based on Zine's corrections and to make some text insertions. The whole conversation in the café is his contribution.  
  
Therefore, if you haven't read "Forgotten Fleet", "Last Sons of Delaz", "In Vain Doth Valour Bleed" or "In Course Reciprocal", DO IT NOW. I cannot plug these guys' works enough. Muchas gracias, amigos y compañeros, y grandes embrazos. 


	5. Chapter 5

"_¡Ay, que lastima!."  
_

Octavio Duarte sat in his Zaku, towering above Xicotencatl road. His suit's monoeye was trained on the pink and blue Zaku beside him instead of on the seaboard where he was supposed to be monitoring. Luna Ruiz was such a competent Jion officer, he reflected, so why did she insist on such childish colours? Even covered with dust as her machine was now, he still couldn't keep from picturing Luna as a teenager, and the woman was a commissioned officer in her twenties.

Ruiz's suit was gazing out over the city. Here and there, smoke was rising from what the Fedichos had bombed. The rail freight terminal. An automotive factory. The causeway leading to the island fortress of San Juan Ulúa in the harbour. Between the city firefighters and the Jions, they'd been able to put out most of the fires, although rescue had been slowed because the mobile suits needed to engage the bombers. Several bombing runs had been disrupted

Duarte sighed. He and Ruiz, who were now the only members of First team after they'd restructured to compensate for the loss of Lopez, had been in Veracruz to back up the Benito Juarez for two weeks. He missed Luisa. He missed going to sleep beside her, her cooking, and her sarcastic remarks. He missed Abuela's spiritlike presence and even Abuelo's wacky theories about the gods. Garma as Huitzilopochtli. _Señor._

Chavez and Alcaraz were handling the base at Teotihuacan. They were doing well, from all he'd heard. The company was ready to fly down at a word from Duarte, but he hadn't seen fit to call them.

"_Why do the Fedichos keep pissing on us this way_, Capitan?" Ruiz asked as they drove their suits back to base. _"It's as if the Fedichos just want to poke us with sticks, make us angry like a hive of bees."_

"I think that's exactly it," Duarte told her. "We've forced them out of the last major city in the south of Mexico. These little attacks are to see how much they can get away with."

Prince Garma back in California Base had been sending abundant intelligence. Duarte knew that they couldn't see any sign of Federation bases within aerial striking distance of Mexico, which meant that the enemy was either well hidden underground or out to sea. Duarte and California Base suspected the latter.

"_I almost wish that the Fedichos would just launch their attack and let us get it over with,"_ Luna said.

Duarte shook his head in his suit. "As you say, they're just pissing on us. They want to make us angry, see how much firepower we're willing to throw at them."

"They're testing us," Captain Guillermo Greifenstein DÌaz agreed, once they were back in the TOC of the "Benito Juarez". Greifenstein, a tall, slender man with thinning blond hair and blue eyes, was quicker on the uptake than any of the 505th had wanted to admit after the taking of Oaxaca. Despite his last name, he was _pura Raza_, his family having moved there after World War II for a multiple-great grandfather to be a supervisor in the Volkswagen plant.

"Ever considered a visit to Nuevo Koenigsburg?" Duarte had once asked him conversationally.

Greifenstein had shaken his head. "I hate beer and don't speak a word of German," he said, ending that conversation. "I get so sick of everybody assuming I identify as a German. All I have is a last name, _caramba_."

"They want to check out our resistance, see how much we have to defend the city with," Duarte agreed. "That's why we're seeing attacks on factories in the suburbs and the main roads getting bombed."

"Any word from Colonel Zabi as to where they're coming from?"

Duarte shook his head. "Possibly an aircraft carrier, but it's also possible they're coming in from Jaburo, wherever that is."

"We know it's south of here. That's a lot of land mass to look around in, though."

"Could it be hidden in the Yucatan, maybe?" Luna asked.

1st Lieutenant Xochitl Madero Hernan shook her head. "We have the Zapatistas down there keeping an eye out. They and their Maya associates know the jungle better than we know the streets of Zum City." She grinned nastily; her family had been among the last bunch of deportees. The high cost of living of Zum City had not been an option for a family of dark skinned, black haired Nahuas.

Luna squirmed a bit. She had been born on Side 3, in Guadalupe colony. She had light skin, shoulder-length brown hair, and she did know Zum City from her time at the Academy. Xochitl's hip-length, obsidian-black hair was in a single braid down her back. She radiated attitude and OTS.

Greifenstein was talking. "They could be in Honduras for all we know. The Fedichos are testing our resistance, but they're also being very careful not to do more than nibble around our edges. Looks like they want to take the city whole, but it could all still be a probe. If anything, they know we have the suits."

"I agree," said Duarte. "They lost Oaxaca, they have to compensate. What better way to do it than to seize the only remaining port in the Gulf of Mexico?"

"The water route to Canaveral and Cuba," Madero said. "Plus if they take Veracruz they can dock their ships, release their troops and tanks and head right into the heart of Mexico."

"Couldn't they do that via Cancun?" Ruiz asked.

Greifenstein tipped his head side-to-side in a thoughtful gesture. "They could, but it wouldn't be very worth their while. Cancun was more or less a cruise ship port, and we made sure to destroy all the amenities anyway. It left us with a lot of _Conejos_ who had been employed at the hotels, but it had to be done. It's a long, long way from there into the Valley of Mexico, though." He turned to Duarte. "That's why they're dropping bombs so selectively, it seems. They need this port for themselves."

"With it in their hands, they've got a straight shot to Mexico City on one side and the Caribbean on the other," Madero observed. "They're not going to want to destroy it."

An aide brought over a stack of the most recent reconnaissance photos. The officers spread them out on the large oak table that dominated Greifenstein's office. "They're sending in airstrikes against what they perceive as possible military targets," he said. "They've been mostly wrong so far, although they've done damage to some of our runways. It's anyone's guess how long they're going to persist in doing this."

"I've got the Royal Cuauhtemocs lined up as a quick response force," Duarte assured him.

"All of them?" Greifenstein asked with some concern.

"Team rotations. Second team will respond first, Third will stay behind so we don't leave the base completely vulnerable. They can still be called in if needed."

"The goal should be to do enough damage to the attackers that they give up or change tactics," Greifenstein said. "They won't keep this up forever."

Duarte nodded in agreement. "They'll spend some time deciding what's more important to them: Veracruz or its population. After that, they'll come for us."

The Federation struck again that night with another air and artillery barrage. Luna came out of a sound sleep immediately on hearing a siren, followed by explosions nearby, which had not been something usual at JFB Veracruz. She grabbed her uniform and came out of her geodesic dome to find Xochitl already outside, her braid half-undone.

"Mobile suit hangar, quickly!" she yelled, and the two young women started running towards it.

"They're close!" Ruiz observed.

"And on land. That's new," Madero said grimly. "They must have heard El Rubio. They changed tactics like he said."

The explosions and sounds of artillery impacts continued as they ran into the hangar. Duarte and Greifenstein were already there as the other four Benito Juarez came in. "The Fedichos are striking the suburbs from the air again," Duarte said. "They're coming in on the ground from the south."

"We have to push them back," said Greifenstein. "We can't let them encircle the city from the ground or they'll be able to take it."

"Second team is coming in by Gau from Teotihuacan," Duarte added. "They need 45 minutes and they'll drop right in. So until then, we'll use the plan we came up with earlier this week. Luna and I will take the north side, you Benito Juarez take the south. We'll keep them off the approaches to the city."

"We can add some Dopps to the equation," Greifenstein agreed. "Let's go."

Duarte and Ruiz walked their Zakus into the Mexican night, followed by four Magella tanks and eight armoured troop carriers. The streets were quiet; few citizens had left Veracruz but all knew to lie low while these things were happening. Duarte was aware that there had been no small amount of protest to what Zakus and tanks did to the city streets and roads, but it couldn't be helped. Not when the Federation was just outside.

In her own Zaku, Luna was wishing she'd been able to have a coffee before they mounted. Well, maybe not. Coffee meant she might have to pee later, and that was very inconvenient in a mobile suit. Once again into the breach though, facing Federation firepower and death. Luna smiled grimly. Doña Sebastiana, the Mexican personification of Death, was on her side, she was sure. She'd always been scared of the image of that dread Lady until she was older and made friends with Her: a skeleton in a robe like the Virgin, a bow and arrow in her hands.

_Santa Muerte hace de mÌ una saeta,_ she prayed. Holy Death, make me into an arrow.

Then the firing started. "_Look sharp for Fly Manthas,_" Duarte ordered, and Luna registered that even though she was training her suit's searchlights on the area in front of her. Ten million candlepower lit up the night, showing off a line of Federation tanks, turrets scanning left-to-right as they wove their way through the narrow suburban pathways. Their discipline was good, with plenty of space between tanks, but they were still moving single-file. Luna knew they'd caught them in mid-move. Experience gave her faith in that Duarte knew exactly what to do.

Three 120mm rounds struck the lead tank's turret coupling in mid-scan, blowing several tons of weapon system into the air and turning the armored vehicle into a pyre. Another burst caught the trail tank, immolating it and effectively trapping the convoy between two burning hulks.

The second tank was quick, its turret swishing back around from its rightward scan to engage the threat to its front. As the Jion suits began hammering murderous fire into the tank line, the twin 150mm's of the Federation tanks began to add their own thunder to the racket, forcing the mobile suits to find cover. The Magellas commenced firing as the Zakus repositioned to strike the Federation flanks, forcing the tanks to disperse their counterfire on multiple targets.

The second tank, now the first of the line, fired another shot at the Jion, then began to roll forward, using its power to push the bulk of its destroyed point tank off of the road, preparing to open the path the Feds could use to break out of their predicament. Open terrain would give the tanks the advantage of massed firepower. Luna saw it first.

"_Jefe!_"

"_Heat hawks!_" Duarte commanded, his Zaku charging into the tank line before they could escape into open ground. Luna drew hers and followed; even as she drew the blade it was deflecting bullets. She slashed downwards, both keeping shells from her cockpit and cutting at the tanks. Go away, bugs. Not today. Long ago she'd come to think of the Fedichos as roaches, not people, just dirty little vermin to be baited and killed or stomped under her foot. Take that. Eat my heat hawk. _¡Pinché cabrones!_

It was all over before morning. As the sun began to rise over the Gulf of Mexico, sending soft pink rays across a landscape veiled in smoke and early-morning fog, the Federation retreated, leaving the remains of almost a company's worth of tanks and infantry carriers behind, smoldering as their fuel and ammo burned itself out. In his own cockpit, Duarte leaned forward, not believing what his radar and own eyes were telling him. He rubbed at his eyes angrily.

"_What are they doing, Captain Duarte?_" Ruiz asked over his radio.

"Turning tail like a bunch of cowards," Duarte said. "Morning. I guess they want breakfast!"

"_That makes no sense,_ Luna said. _"Should we go after them?"_

There was a pause as Duarte consulted with Greifenstein, then: "Negative. Guillermo says the same thing happened in the south. Return to base; the infantry will handle the cleanup."

For all they were tired and bitchy, it was still good to see second team again. Mike Chavez, Pedro Hernandez, and Maria Franco met them in the hangar and exchanged hugs and kisses with their companions before accepting cups of coffee from a Benito Juarez wife.

"The way she's dressed," Chavez said. "I think I've seen that in a book somewhere."

The woman was wearing the normal Mexican outfit of embroidered blouse and jeans, but with a white handkerchief tied around her right upper arm, a plain white sombrero atop her braided hair.

"She's an Adelita," Maria Franco said, stirring some sugar into her cup. "Ancient custom from the early 20th century. Women revolutionary soldiers. Emiliano Zapata used them. ILa poder de la mujer/I, you know."

"They do more than serve coffee, I hope," Luna said.

"Yes," Greifenstein and Duarte said in unison, sipping from their cups at the same time.

"Why did the Feddies withdraw, though?" Chavez asked. "I mean, sure we were kicking their butts, but I know they must have more to throw at us."

"You complaining?" asked Hernandez.

"No, but it's suspicious."

"It is suspicious," Greifenstein agreed when the same Adelita came by with a tray of Ipan dulce/I. He picked out a pastry and went on, "All I can come up with is that bombing Veracruz just to do it isn't their goal. Maybe they just want to get us good and riled for something else."

"Maybe they're just testing us again," Xochitl Madero said.

That put an end to the conversation until they'd all eaten, and they returned to their quarters for a few hours of sleep.

Nothing happened the next day, nor the next. By the end of the week, it looked as if the First and Second teams of the 505th could go home.

"Stay packed," Duarte ordered.

There were sighs of resignation from the company, who did as they were told. Pablo's response was to install a jump seat in Duarte's Zaku.

"What's that?" Duarte asked, on finding him in the process.

Pablo tightened up the belts holding the seat in place. "If I gotta go with you, I can't go in the trucks with the mechanics. I checked. You'd have to buy me a kiddie car seat." He gave the belt an extra tug. "Jion military not set up for an _enano_ like me."

The last time Pablo had been off Teotihuacan was during the drop to Earth. Although he'd had to wear his usual child's normal suit, he had been secure belted into place like the rest of them. Duarte hadn't stopped to consider that there might be a snag when they actually had their feet on the dirt.

Consequently, Duarte nodded. "Carry on."

"You know, I fix these things, but somebody else always has to test them out for me. This'll be my first time riding along in gravity."

"Definitely overrated," Duarte said. "Taking a body slam from another suit in full gravity is not a happy thing."

Pablo crossed his arms. "You really think the Fedichos are gonna have mobile suits one of these days, _jefe_?"

"You know they've got captured Zakus. Wouldn't you use it as the model for a mobile suit of your own?"

Pablo nodded. "True."

"The goal is to end this before they get that far—"

"And even having a colony dropped on them didn't get the Fedichos to surrender, so that's not gonna be easy," Pablo observed.

"But if we can't, this unit will at least be ready for them."

Pablo nodded as they descended on the lift. "I'll keep these little angels ready to rock and roll, all right. Still," he looked wistful, "I'd still like to see a new suit on our side. Could save all our asses when the Fedichos strike again."

They were distracted by a rancid odour that suddenly struck them like a moving wall of stink. They turned to see Luisa glowering at them, her hair tied in a bandanna and an apron over her clothes. The apron was splattered with organic slime of various sickly colours.

"_Chingao_, woman, you stink!" Pablo exclaimed, taking advantage of Luisa's being his cousin-by-marriage to swear. Duarte just covered his nose but looked unsurprised.

"You're right. I do stink," she told him, raising a hand. "You should have smelled me before I got rid of my rubber gloves. Those were what were actually in the dogs. This better lead to the deaths of lots of Fedichos, Tavi."

"Forgive me, _corazon_," he said. "I'm sure it will. It's worked many times before. Guerillas in southeast Asia had good luck using them against us when we first landed there. I'm counting on the Fedichos to have not spoken to these guerillas and learned from them."

"What has he got you doing?" Pablo asked, backing away.

"Ordnance gives us the explosive devices. We wives put them in the dead dogs."

Pablo gazed quizzically up at his commander.

"Then they'll put the dead dogs in the roads leading up to Veracruz," Duarte explained. "They'll rip the hell out of an enemy troop carrier. We're putting them in rubble piles and plastic baggies, too; roadside trash is as good a hiding place as any for a coffee can with a 120mm mortar shell in it. Rig it up to a proximity detonator or a remote trigger, then sit back and watch the chaos."

"Ah. You know Cousin Angel, right? And how he hated Jion Deykun, _verdad_? Always said a dead dog would be more useful than he was, for looking out for Side 3. What do you know? He was right."

"The dead dogs are on their way," Luisa said. "I told the other women to go home, shower, and burn their clothes. I made sure the ordnance team got all of them loaded into their refrigerator truck. It left about twenty minutes ago. It's disguised well; just another dairy delivery. Thank goodness we send out food into the countryside a lot. A truck like that not making stops shouldn't make anyone too suspicious."

Even as life in Tenochtitlan was almost back to normal, the small, annoying attacks on Veracruz kept up for the Benito Juarez. Few days passed when they didn't see some Federation planes or recon armour. The Benito Juarez had to stand watch constantly over the factories, water treatment plants, and other potential targets in the city. The Improvised Explosive Devices (IEDs) in the roadside garbage and dog corpses were a nasty surprise to the Federals as they made deeper and deeper incursions into the suburbs. It was encouraging to hear that a Fedicho patrol, apparently checking the possibility of starting forays into the city, failed to avoid the corpse of a dog that was lying beside the road. Instead of sticky tires, they ended up with one patrol vehicle blown to kingdom come and the others damaged by the blast and the resulting shrapnel.

The Fedichos, on the other hand, began to react differently in response. Where once a dead dog or an oddly-placed cinderblock would not have gained any more than glancing notice, now each and every scrap of debris in the roads became a mission-crippling potential crisis.

"Driver, _halt_!" barked Federation 1st Lieutenant Tim Robeck in his headset, bringing his Type-71 command hovertruck, designated E-31, to a standstill, along with the other three vehicles, all tanks, in his column. He poked his helmeted head out of his commander's hatch, moving the reassuring weight of the 20mm chain gun out of the way as he peered out. _Damn,_ he thought, _another one._ "Fucking hell. RAY!! GOT ANOTHER ONE!"

"_You really don't have to yell, sir,_" trickled his driver's voice in his headset, "_I can hear you just fine on the internal. Got another _what?"

"Dog."

There was a sigh. "Please _can we just shoot the thing? Save us some time and trouble?_"

"I wish, but ROE's clear. Any of these and we gotta call it higher." Robeck wanted to scream. "We're two hours behind time-on-target and we keep finding these things. How many fucking dogs are there in this city?"

"_The ones on four legs, or two?_"

"Never mind. Just call the thing up and get those EOD pukes out here." Robeck scanned the surrounding buildings as Ray switched over to Battalion command net to request the Explosive Ordnance Demolitions team. "I'm sick of this bullshit, too. . ." he said to no one and nothing in particular, twisting his head around to look over at E-32 behind him. The line of Type 61s were waiting patiently, though it was pretty evident that Sergeant Kimmel looked pissed that they were stopping again. He keyed Platoon. "Three-Two, Three-One."

"_This's Three-Two,_" came Kimmel's voice.

"Sorry about this, Three-Two. Got another possible mutt bomb."

Robeck could see Kimmel throw his hands in the air. "_Yeah, roger, figured it was something stupid like that. Lemme guess, we're gonna sit here and wait for EOD to get off their lazy asses and do their job, right?_"

"Same as before, yeah."

"_Sir,_" continued Kimmel, "_not to sound like a total Negative Nancy, but we ain't got enough EOD to be doing this shit for every piece of trash and rundown hound out here. Can't we ask Eliminator X-Ray for clearance to engage with coax or something?_"

Robeck smiled grimly, turning back around to watch the forward arc of his own truck. "You _know_ what they'll want first, and then you know what they'll say after they get it." Eliminator X-Ray was the Company CP, of which Robeck's platoon was part of. They would want location, description, and resources affected, and then call up to Battalion for fire clearance, and Battalion would play Twenty Questions until someone field-grade or higher finally said "No" to the request and told them to secure the site and wait for EOD.

Kimmel snorted. "_Figures they'd play bureaucrat while we--"_

A wash of heat passed over Robeck from behind, before the racketous thunder of a Jion 120mm struck his hearing. In shock, he whirled around to see a Zaku step out from behind the church, its weapon's fire sweeping across E-33 and E-34 as it had over E-32. The three tanks were burning quite nicely as the Zaku's mono-eye fixed on Robeck.

"_SHIT!!_" he cursed, terror overcoming his shock and surprise at being ambushed. "_DRIVER, BACK--_" was all he was able to get out before the 120mm spoke its roar again.

Massacre completed, Benito Juarez pilot Sergeant Orlando Reyes Berrigan reached down to pick up the corpse of Charlie, the dun-coloured mutt lately run over by a careless icolectivo/i driver. No sense leaving it to make a stink. The locals would put out the fires and scavenge the vehicles for whatever might be useful, but most everything would be destroyed anyway. It seemed that even a dog with bad luck could be an effective tool in slowing the Fedichos down.

Later that evening, as they were lingering over coffee in Luisa's kitchen, (she had taken several showers in-between) Duarte's cell phone went off. He answered and just the half of the conversation that Pablo and Luisa could hear let them know the Federation had made a move.

"I have to go to the Command Post right away," Duarte said. "Good thing you put in that jump seat. Time to go to work."

"The Fedichos get to Veracruz before we did, _jefe_?" Pablo asked.

"That's the funny thing, they didn't," Duarte said. "They're converging on Oaxaca again."

The mood in the 505th CP was one of carefully controlled fury. Mike Chavez was impressed as he watched the rest of the company from his desk at the back of the room. Luna was silent, turning a pen around and around in her fingers. Provi Alcaraz, Pedro Hernandez and George Villalobos were the most animated; they were sitting side-by-side and their conversation was peppered with the foulest insults that could be lobbed at the Federation's mother. Leobardo Magadan was studying the latest Royal Jion Cartography Service map of Oaxaca.

Maria Franco was tending the coffee machine. She had already made one pot, put it up on the burner, and was brewing another. In the meantime, she was refilling the sugar bowl, putting fresh packets from a box into the bowl with the older bags on top. She'd wiped down the entire counter before starting. Hers was the most complicated ritual in the company. Mike's was simple; he watched things and tried to understand.

Understanding, or at least partial, was on its way. They stood as Captain Duarte entered the room, followed by his assistant Conchita who sat down at the computer at the front of the room.

"_Compañeros y compañeras_, you have heard correctly. Oaxaca is once again under attack, and we'll shortly be on our way to its relief." He nodded to Conchita, who turned on the projector to which the computer was connected. An aerial photo showed a Federation tanks on the move from the south. "This was just sent to me from Brigade. This is coming up the 175 as fast as it can go and will hit Oaxaca in about two hours. Since we've been holding ourselves ready for a quick response, we'll be loading ourselves onto the Gaus momentarily and dropping down into position to guard the city here." He pointed to a line south of the city, across the indicated highway.

Villalobos raised his hand. "Why Oaxaca? They've been making all their moves on Veracruz. They need Veracruz, why they going after a city they can retake as soon as they have their port?"

"We resent this, don't we?" Duarte asked.

"_Claro!_" Hernandez exclaimed. "They made us lose Lopez, then we had to turn the city back over to the Benito Juarez."

"Exactly," Duarte said. "Veracruz is more important, but we cannot under any circumstances allow Oaxaca to fall back into Feddie hands. Our countrymen will never forgive us."

"Do they even know what we're _doing_ in Zum City?" Villalobos asked.

"Those weren't the countrymen I was talking about," Duarte said, and Chavez noticed the dark expression that passed briefly over the colony-born Villalobos's face. "Not all Mexicans think that we Jions are all that different from the Fedichos. Maybe we have faces like theirs, but we're still invaders. The liberation of Oaxaca made a lot of people think twice about that. If we don't protect Oaxaca, people will think that it was all a publicity stunt to promote Garma as viceroy. He made promises to protect their land, and it's up to us to uphold those promises. If we don't, it won't really matter if we can keep the Fedichos out of Veracruz because we'll lose Mexico anyway and when we settle on Earth after Jion wins, we'll still be nothing more than an invading army. Questions?"

There were none, so he went on with the briefing.

Half an hour later, they were airborne. Their Zakus were lined up and locked in place in three Gaus that were heading south towards Oaxaca. The flight was only an hour, during which each member of the company sat in his or her mobile suit, waiting for the drop and able to talk only to the pilots in the hangar with them.

Chavez rode along in silence for about five minutes. He'd brought music with him, but found himself advancing to the next song after a few bars of anything he played. Finally he just turned the player off and said, "Franco, you there?"

There was silence on the line before she appeared on a viewscreen, having turned on that camera in her cockpit. Her angular face, framed by short black hair, peered back at him with the expression of someone called out of the bath for a call they knew was important. "_I'm here._"

"Wanted to hear a human voice."

She held a white rosary up to his view. "_This is what I do when I'm heading for battle, but I can talk to you._"

"They're pretty."

"_Gift from my mother, Dios le acoja en su seno. I carried it on my wedding day."_

"Where were you married?"

"_Side 3, two years after I joined the militia."_

"You told me your husband died in the One Week War. You were married 18 years."

"_Yeah."_

"You've lived more than 20 years on Side 3. What's more home to you, it or Mexico?"

"_Difficult question."_ She considered a moment. _"Jion's got my citizenship. It's been good to me and I'm proud of it, but Mexico,"_ her voice caught a little. _"Mexico's the place that makes my blood sing."_ After a moment she asked, "_You?_"

"Still Los Angeles," he said. "I mean, I grew up there. I only got sent to Jion after college, remember, thank you Federation, and then I couldn't stay employed, thank you Federation again. Now I'm here and I dunno." He thought for a second, then smiled whimsically. "There is definitely something to be said for getting in touch with your roots. I won't lie to you though. I still feel like an outsider.".

She nodded. "_Not a good feeling. Not a good feeling at all. You already fought with us one time in Oaxaca. I'm thinking that whatever comes next, you're going to feel like one of us after it._"

As the Gaus came closer in to Oaxaca, Luna Ruiz made sure her dolls were secure. They had been a fad in Nuevo Aztlan that unfortunately became a trend among high school girls in the rest of the colony. They were little fabric things, about eight inches high, with very rudimentary faces painted onto cloth heads that had yarn hair. It was the costumes that made them popular, because each was unique. They wore square-yoked blouses and multilayered skirts, with the embroidered design on the blouse and the skirts individual to each doll. In Nuevo Aztlan, they were just toys for little girls. In the rest of Side 3 they had a reputation for being good luck dolls, or friendship dolls, meanings that girls with a bit more money who were used to more sophisticated playthings had impressed upon them.

Child of Nuevo Aztlan and the military academy that she was, Luna had adopted the _anglos'_ meaning. She had three dolls, one for her and the others for her two sisters, in the cockpit. She had long ago glued Velcro strips to the panel in front of her so that she could seatbelt them into place. That way she and her sisters could be together, in spirit at least.

The voice of the pilot came into her cockpit. _"We're descending to the drop point. On signal, launch."_

Luna doublechecked her seat harness and sat forward to drop her braid down the back of her tunic. She popped in a rubber mouthpiece to protect her teeth, leaned back against the seat and exhaled. No matter how often they did these drops in gravity, it never got any easier.

The hatch of the Gau opened like a mouth. Luna's Zaku was first in line, so she disengaged its feet from the locks in the deck and took three steps forward to the edge. She tipped her suit's head down to see the ground below, a wide field darkness beneath a dark-blue night sky. It was a clear night. She could make out every star.

She was acutely aware, as always, that she was about to drop into open air while surrounded by 61 metric tons of metal. Still, the fact that she was looking at the ground through a viewscreen provided a psychological barrier against panic. She didn't hesitate to depress the pedal and make the Zaku take that step forward.

The Zaku provided no cushion against the feeling of free-fall, though. Luna lifted an inch above her seat and her stomach lurched upward. A sense of animal panic always hit the second she was in the air, but Luna also always squashed it within seconds and hit the thrusters. The sense of falling was replaced by one of, if not exactly flight, of descending to earth with enough control to calm her terrified mammal brain. Behind her, Duarte had launched and was making his own landing. She checked his position briefly; he'd be hitting the ground behind and to her right, just as planned. Luna increased the thrusters as she neared the ground, but when the Zaku's feet hit, she was still slammed into her seat with a force that rattled every bone in her body. She felt a second, not nearly as painful jolt as Duarte hit the ground as well.

She pulled out her mouthpiece and slid it into its box. "I'm down all right, _jefe_."

"_The Feddie tanks are on their way,_ compañeros," Duarte's voice said in her cockpit. "_I'm hearing 30 tanks with Fly Manthas and Tin Cod in the air behind, almost a battalion of armor with air support."_ There was a pause as he listened to Tenochtitlan again. "_Okay, our Dopps are close behind. Let's keep what's ours, people._"

They could see each others' monoeyes and the small blinking red lights that dotted the skins of the Zakus. Despite the clear night, it was still moonless and dark. They moved around slowly, turning their Zakus' heads as they walked, imitating the movements of average-sized people looking out for something.

Above, they could see the tracers from the guns of the Dopps as they engaged the incoming aircraft. On the right flank, George Villalobos suddenly saw the flashing light in front of his suit that told him he'd been the first one fired upon from above. With a cry of surprise, he jerked his suit out of the way and lifted his machine gun, just as an explosion happened overhead. Whether the exploding plane had been friend or foe he didn't know, but at least no one was shooting at him anymore.

The Type 61s came into the view of their infrared and began firing. Duarte gave the command to return fire, and they started pulling the triggers on the machine guns they'd been holding since they landed.

In his suit, Duarte groaned inwardly. The Federation had sent a force half the size of the one they initially engaged at Oaxaca, but the darkness made it just as challenging. They had to trust the Dopps to take care of the enemy aircraft, as shooting randomly into the sky could destroy their own planes. The Zakus were only able to concentrate on the enemy facing them from the ground, and the knowledge that they were unable to keep an eye on the enemy in the sky made the skin on Duarte's back prickle.

Three of the Type 61s were hit and destroyed in the first minute of combat, the lurid explosions lighting up the terrain. Magadan pitched a cracker at the middle of the formation and two more tanks went flying. Ruiz, having had good luck with her heat hawk before, took it again from her Zaku's waist rack and started swinging it like a golf club. She'd cleared her path of one tank and sliced the front three feet off another when the blade of the axe, coming up from one of her swings, caught downward fire from an aircraft and disintegrated in her hands. She let out a wail of outrage and had to fight the urge to fire upwards. Another explosion told her it might not have been necessary anyway.

"_Eight tanks down!_" Duarte's voice said from the speakers in their cockpits. "_Villaseca upstairs says they've killed three Fedicho planes. Infantry's behind us, they're moving in to protect the city_."

Duarte thought quickly about Veracruz, and the fact that they were having to divert troops that could be sent there to defend it into Oaxaca to keep that city out of enemy hands. Between that and the relatively small force of their attackers, the situation spelled trouble down the line. He was snapped out of that line of thought as another Type 61 neared, blowing the right-side track off the Magella behind him, skirt armor tearing away. Duarte pointed his machinegun downward, firing.

It was just before dawn when another call came into Duarte's cockpit. He answered it and saw Greifenstein on his screen. The Benito Juarez commander was clearly in his own mobile suit, looking as if he hadn't slept in a couple of nights.

"_I know you're busy,_" he said quietly to Duarte, "_but if you could find a way to send some of the Cuauhtemocs down to Veracruz, it'd be appreciated. While the Fedichos have you tied up in Oaxaca there, the bulk of their forces are closing in on Veracruz_."

Xochitl, which means "flower" is pronounced SHO-shtl. Believe it or not, it's a common name.

Dwarf

Whew! This was another difficult one to write. Parts came relatively easily, like Luna's drop out of the Gau. I've noticed that as long as it's something I can picture, I can write it.

Hence, there is no way I could have done the IED scene on my own. I wrote a sketchier version and then handed it over to HDS, who had a field day with it. He also did the usual editor thang of pointing out bad transitions as well as sending me pictures of what the view is like through the periscope of a tank, which allows me to imagine the view from an infrared Zaku camera.

I'll try not to make it be a year in between this and the next chapter, promise!


	6. Chapter 6

26

"How'd this happen, _jefe_? Are the Benito Juarez as sloppy like we been joking?" Pablo Gonzalez Garcia asked from the jump seat he'd installed in Octavio Duarte Garcia's Zaku.

Duarte glowered at the road in front of him as the 505th's mobile suits jogged northeast. "No. After working with those guys, I'm pretty happy with them. The Fedichos set a trap and we fell right into it. _Putamadre_! How could we be so stupid?"

"You're not stupid, Tavi. No way. You had to keep Oaxaca out of the Fedicho's hands or Prince Garma was going to lose all sorts of points with the people. You swore fealty, so you had to back him. Otherwise, the Virgin of Guadalupe was gonna have your ass."

"Not to mention Abuelo," Duarte grumbled.

"He still going on about Garma being Huitzilopochtli?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry, man. You did so much work to keep this from happening."

"I thought we had enough IEDs out!" Duarte exclaimed for the third or fourth time this trip, and they had only been on the road two hours. "Now not only do we have to walk to Veracruz--"

"We gotta clean up our own dog bombs as we do it. Yeah, I know, _jefe_, I know."

Duarte sighed, thinking of the combat engineers up ahead, clearing the way. So much time lost. So much time being lost as the Federation moved on the city from the south. Plus his companions in the 505th were running on adrenaline as it was, having fought all night in Oaxaca. He himself was glad that Pablo was there to talk to him and make sure he didn't fall asleep at the controls.

His radio came on and he adjusted the viewscreen to see an equally weary-looking Greifenstein. "Just wanted to give you the latest," the Benito Juarez commander said to Duarte.

"Give me some good news, _compañero_."

**"I would if I had it, Duarte. Fact is, I just had a big go-round with City Council."**

"They want you to surrender the city to the Fedichos?"

**"Worse. They want to destroy it themselves."**

Duarte paused. "Wouldn't be the first time, but it'd be bad for our side. What'd you tell them?"

**"That we need the city intact as much as the Fedichos do. They said that maybe neither of us should have it. Not everybody sees Jion as the liberators."**

"I know. The Fedichos used that against us with Oaxaca."

Greifenstein shook his head. **"Don't beat yourself up over it, Duarte. Anyway, we compromised. Everybody who wants out of the city is moving north. The city's swarming with Jion soldiers, some of whom Garma sent down from the States. They're setting up in town strategically, to draw fire and fire right back. We're having a language issue though. Brigade did its best, but the fact is that a lot of these guys don't speak Spanish and it's freaking the locals out. Nobody alive remembers the American offensive on Veracruz in 1912, but they might as well. These people have long memories."**

"We'll be there by dark, we hope. They caught us in a position that we couldn't fly over there. The Gaus are back in Teotihuacan."

**"You got to us what we really need; the Dopps. We'll hang tough, Duarte. I'll keep you posted."**

As the 505th made their painfully slow way towards Veracruz, the Benito Juarez moved into position on the southern approaches of the city. Xochitl Madero stood with her machine gun at the ready, watching the skies through the upper rear cameras of her Zaku.

The Jion forces were hoping to keep this battle in the air as much as possible. Knowing that the 505th were on their way was encouraging, but if they had to use the mobile suits very much, the chances of destroying the city would go far higher than anyone wanted.

In his own Zaku, Greifenstein listened to the sitrep from the Benito Juarez CP. His brow furrowed as he received the details on what was heading his way. "Don Escargots," he sighed. "Fly Mantas to do us in. Even some FF-4s to keep the Dopps busy." He opened a channel to his companions.

"We're going to have to use all our skills, _compañeros y compañeras_," he said into his mike. "There's Fedicho tanks incoming and a choice selection of aircraft too." He summarized that for them. "The 505th are on their way, but I don't think they'll be here before 1900. So we fan out."

He paused, trying to think of the best configuration. The Benito Juarez only had two teams, and each team was meant to fight together, not to be split apart. No choice now, though. "Sgt Camacho, you're with me. We'll take Highway Sin Nombre. Corporal Menendez, Lieutenant Madero, you take Highway 150. Reyes, Amixtlan, you stand inside the triangle of 180, 150, and 140 by Las Bajadas."

The grouping was too loose; he knew it, even though it was as close in to the city as he could place the suits while still guarding the major highways. As he and Camacho moved into place, Greifenstein could see the battle in the sky overhead. The Dopps were working hard to keep the Fly Mantas and Don Escargots from coming in at the Zakus. Dodais would come in later to strafe the Federation tanks, which would be coming in…

…now.

Greifenstein could see Type 61s and infantry. This would be the usual challenge; to keep the tanks and Federation column from advancing while avoiding being killed by aforementioned tanks from below and the bombers overhead.

First step: stopping those advancing ground troops. Greifenstein peered into the rising dust and as he had done so many times before in the past eight months, pointed his machine gun and opened fire.

Back in her position, Xochitl Madero was having a struggle of a different sort. She'd been paired up with Corporal Marta Menendez Ruiz because Menendez was the greenest of them all while Xochitl was the second-most experienced.

"**How do we do this, ma'am?" ** There was a slight edge of nerves in the corporal's voice. That was usual for her, but it never failed to set Xochitl's teeth on edge.

"How you happier, blowing up tanks or planes?"

"**Tanks, ma'am."**

"Okay, take my back. I'm facing into the city."

Xochitl turned her Zaku around. Thick, dark grey smoke was billowing up from the perimeters of Veracruz, but the majority of the city looked all right. Unnaturally still, but intact. Above was the glitter of tracer fire from the aircraft overhead. Suddenly, a Depp Rog bomber came into sight, heading towards her, Xochitl aimed her machine gun and fired off one burst. The bomber exploded in a most satisfying way, but there were two Fly Mantas behind. Xochitl yanked on the controls of her Zaku and the big machine lurched rapidly to her left, dodging the missiles that tore into the air where she had just been. Beside her, Menendez did the same, but her Zaku fell to the ground.

"You all right, Corporal?"

Menendez grunted. **"I just feel stupid. ¡Ay!"** From her suit's prone position, she started firing at the nearest Federation vehicles as they approached. The spray of rounds coming from near their height stopped them cold.

"Good work!" Xochitl said, blasting away at more enemy aircraft heading her way. Menendez's Zaku got up and threw a cracker down the road with an underhanded toss; it exploded in a spray of plasma and electrical discharge, consuming a pair of Type-61 tanks, effectively blocking off the road for the rest of the Federation's heavy vehicles. Their infantry, however, pressed on, flanking the Zeon position in spite of the firefight going on around them.

"Dios mío, **where the hell these come from?**" Menendez asked.,snapping off another burst at an enemy infantry platoon that was maneuvering towards the neighborhood structures on the outskirts of the suburbs.

"Does it _matter?_" Xochitl snapped. Menendez wasted oxygen. Even on Earth, she wasted oxygen.

"**Madero? Be aware, there's about six Fly Mantas coming your way. They're smelling blood."** a voice reported from the Benito Juarez CP.

"Great."

"**Gattles coming in to engage them. You take care of any survivors."**

"Wilco." Xochitl reflected for a second about how much she wished they could all just communicate in Spanish. English got tiring for her. An explosion overhead marked the death of a Fly Manta, but two more escaped their Dopp pursuers and came her way.

"Menendez! Behind you! Up!"

"_¡Andalé!"_ Menendez acknowledged the warning, but a Type 61 was closing on her. She fired her machine gun once, turned as Xochitl blew up one of two Fly Mantas—

And Menendez's Zaku caught a missile right in the chest right as she raised her machine gun.

"**Xochitl!"** she shrieked from inside her doomed suit, **"Ayuda—"**

Xochitl watched helplessly as plasma arced along the outside of the other woman's Zaku. Since Menendez's cry for help had been cut off, she had to have already died in there. At least, Xochitl hoped so, hoped that it was not just that Menendez's radio had cut out before the pilot's life did.

All Xochitl could do was backstep to avoid the explosion. In contrast to the dulled thumps of evaded enemy fire exploding around her _Zaku_, the demise of Menendez's suit made her ears ring.

She kept her Zaku's footing and called Greifenstein. "Captain…we lost Menendez. I'm alone out here."

Her commander was silent for a moment. **"I'll send you some Magellas as backup. Best I can do."**

"Roger." She couldn't feel her body. Xochitl looked up and saw some Type 61s approaching, the enemy having pushed aside Menendez's barricade with annoying swiftness. She reached for a cracker but aerial backup took care of it instead, the Gattles' cluster bombs and strafing runs punishing the Federation column and their exposed infantry.

She held her position for the longest five hours of her life, alone and trying not to look at the fragmentary remains of Menendez's suit. Ironically, when the Feddies finally broke through the Jion defenses, it was to the north where a roundabout route paid off in getting past Reyes and Amixtlan.

"That's what they think," Greifenstein growled from his own cockpit. "Company! Fishook after the invader; we'll get 'em from the rear, then move northeast. We gotta keep them away from the port."

In the Federation TOC, Major Mike Donegal was looking at the latest aerial views of the city as he projected them onto a screen on the wall.

"You can see where the Jeeks have set up their artillery. They've got those emplacements, and they've got tanks behind that too. It's gonna be tough, but we can cope. We've already got infantry in the city as a welcome wagon and airstrikes to keep them busy and distracted. What we have to do is make sure we contain those Zakus at the same time. Leave that to the Fly Manthas. We'll shell the emplacements surgically and that should give us the city."

"Are we pushing the Zakus back towards Puebla or towards the ocean?" one of his captains asked.

"That was a tough decision, but Jabro thinks the ocean's better. Even if they'll be fighting from a corner, they'll be stuck. Zakus don't swim real well. If we push them back towards Puebla, yeah, they'll be on the run but they'll also be in a position to defend the capitol better, and we can't let them have that. We should have the city well in hand in a few hours."

The street seemed deserted in the late afternoon sun, except for the sound of gunfire and explosions in the near distance. The pavement was now a broken mess of cobblestones turned up by tank and armoured vehicle tracks. The street was narrow, only meant to handle two cars abreast, and two Volkswagens at that, but no cars or civilian vehicles of any sort were in sight or hearing range. The squadron of Federation infantry known as "Snickers Team" moved cautiously between the colonial buildings, wary of the sonic distortions generated by the old buildings.

Sergeant James Rule motioned with his rifle towards the tallest of the structures, a three-story grey stone building that took up half the block and seemed to go around the corner. It was almost windowless, a convenient fortress for guerillas.

"That's a convent, Sarge," their interpreter Rivera whispered into his microphone.

"Might not be active. A lot of 'em are just preserved as museums. Rest of the street's clean. Let's check this one out."

On a hand motion from Rule, four soldiers stacked themselves to the right of the door, each standing with left foot forward, pressed "nut to butt" against the soldier in front. Two more soldiers came forward with a battering ram. They stood in front of the big, iron-studded wood door, drew the ram back, and swung it forward into the door. Ancient wood splintered as the bolt inside gave way. The four soldiers poured into the space inside, moving swiftly into to cover every corner of the room with their rifles.

"We've gone into the structure at the corner of Paraguay and Montevideo," Rule reported back to the TOC. For security, all the streets in this sector had been re-named with those of South American countries and cities. "We're looking for inhabitants now."

The room-clearing team found themselves in a stone-paved atrium with a short corridor behind that opened onto a porticoed garden. Within, a nun in a white habit with a black scapular and veil peered at them quizzically as she hoisted a basket of peppers. She turned on the heel of her sensible black shoe, walked a few steps across the garden, and yanked the cord of a bell that stood on a pole.

As the bell clanged, hands reached out and closed the shutters of the windows on the upper floors. The rifles went back up, but Rule had the presence of mind to order, "Hold your fire!"

A moment later, an older nun came out of a door behind them, hands tucked beneath her scapular. She marched up to the soldiers and asked, _"Quien estan ustedes y porque estan aquí?"_

Rule looked to Rivera. "She wants to know who we are and why we're here," Rivera told him.

"Tell her we're soldiers of the Earth Federation, here to liberate the city, and that we're looking for guerillas."

The nun listened to this and responded to the interpreter. "She says that the convent has nothing to hide and to go ahead and search."

"Thank the good sister for us, but we need everybody in the building in one place, with a full accounting for all personnel."

Rivera passed this on and said, "She says get everybody into the kitchen."

Rule turned around. "Get moving, round up every last breathing body in this place and bring 'em down to the courtyard."

They split up into teams and charged through all the rooms, of which there were many., grabbing nuns by the arm and steering them downstairs. Nobody wanted to disturb the chapel much. The statues gazed down on them eerily with glass eyes, looking too real with their human-hair wigs and neat satin clothing. The confessionals were of the old Latin American kind where the priest sat in a chair with a penitent on either side in plain view , so there was no way to hide in them. The nuns' rooms were tiny, with no one under the beds and their storage chests too small to hold a person, although the soldiers opened them anyway. The cemetery contained nothing but the dead.

Finally, they stood in the cavernous kitchen, surrounded by tile fireplaces, modern stoves, work tables, and bins of beans, rice, and vegetables. The nuns who had already been working in the kitchen hadn't moved from their places despite the armed men, although the soldiers had taken all the knives.

Rivera came up to Rule. "None of the sisters has seen or heard anything beyond what they can get on the radio. They don't leave the convent walls anyway, and they're staying put for when the people come back and they come to the convent for food. They want to be ready. If the convent gets hit and they get killed, that's the will of God." He pointed with his chin at large wooden bins along the walls. "Those are a problem. They contain tons of food: rice, beans, peppers, masa. Understandably, the sisters don't want them touched, but they're pretty obvious hiding places for weapons."

"My instinct says dump 'em."

"They're too heavy for that. We can with the ones with the dried peppers, but with the grains that's a no-go."

Rule turned on his microphone. "Captain. We got a situation in the convent. They've got huge bins of rice and beans, weigh a ton each it looks like. They're too large and permanent to lift and dump out. Instructions?"

There was silence on the4 other end. **"Listen for false bottoms, sift through for anything hidden in there."**

"We could pull the front panels off the bins."

"**Negative, Snickers. Higher doesn't want that kind of negative PR. No destruction of private property."** Rule could hear bitterness in the Voice, who he knew had been in-theatre long enough to have seen this kind of order go terribly wrong.

"Roger." Rule looked up at his team. "Start banging on these things, listen for false bottoms, checking as best we can for anything hidden in them."

Two of them put on latex gloves from a first aid kit to run through them manually but one of the nuns supplied them with broomsticks instead. Rule's team spent the next half hour stirring through the bins, poking to the bottom and dragging broom handles through the loose grain, hoping to find something.

From the expressions some of the nuns wore, you'd think they were stripping the altars of their silver. Rule clenched his teeth to hide his own anger. Couldn't these people realize that this was red-carpet treatment in war? Nobody was going to take so much as a fucking tortilla and the beaners needed to get over themselves.

Finally Rule was able to say into his microphone, "Voice? Looks clear, just a bunch of women who are really stubborn or really brave."

TheVoice came back to him, **"Nuns always gave me nightmares about giant penguins. If it's clear, leave 'em before they rap you on the knuckles with their rulers."**

"They look more like snowmen with black scarves, sir."

**"Doesn't matter. Apologize for the inconvenience and keep going. And watch out for the rulers, like I said."**

_"Disculpanos, Madres,"_ the interpreter told them, and they withdrew.

Once the Superior had seen the last soldier out, she shoved the shattered door closed, and motioned for a novice and a younger nun to slide a big wooden sideboard in front of it. She went into the kitchen and said in Spanish, "They're gone."

Four of the nuns unpinned their veils and let their hair free. Under their habits they were wearing civilian clothes, the only common detail being the white handkerchiefs tied around their arms. One of the women fetched their white Stetsons from the laundry, where they had been hanging, covered by white under-veils. A satchel of rocket-launched grenades came up from the recently-tilled soil of the garden. Another went into the chapel, crossed herself apologetically and pulled two RPGs from under Virgin of Soledad's purple gown. Some old-fashioned machine guns came out of a disused chimney. The Superior nodded and led them up to the roof.

"Why are you doing this, Madre?" the leader of the four Adelitas asked as they set up behind the low wall around the roof. "You are a woman of God."

The old nun's eyes narrowed. "Because I haven't seen my brother's family since the Fedichos rounded them up and sent them into space. They write to me sometimes; the young ones have all lost their religion in such a soulless place. Are you fighting to make Mexico a place that doesn't have to lose or send away her children?"

"I've been hiding from the Fedichos for seven years. Yes, Madre."

The old nun gripped her shoulder reassuringly. "Then shoot straight, daughter. What is your name?"

"I'm Lolita, Madre. That's Conchita, Stefania, and Roberta."

"I'll name you all in my prayers." The nun made the sign of the Cross in the air; the four women crossed themselves and raised their fingers to their lips, then turned to the business at hand.

Lolita picked up a cell phone in walkie-talkie mode. "Barbara team ready."

Another female voice answered, **"We hear you, Barbara."**

"We had to let a bunch of Fedichos go. They searched the Santa Rosa here and left."

"They're small change. Listen. There's a Fedicho column coming in eight streets north of you. Here are the coordinates." Lolita jotted down the numbers and handed them to Roberta. "We'll tell you when to fire."

They waited for what seemed like an hour but was really just over a minute before the voice told them, **"Fire."**

Roberta and Stefania positioned their weapons on their shoulders and fired. A moment later there was a loud explosion and a burst of fire and smoke that was visible over the buildings. They heard men shouting. All four women picked up their machine guns and trained them down the street, expecting some very pissed-off and heavily-armed Fedichos to appear in a few minutes.

Instead, what they saw was a low-flying Gattle coming from the west. They saw it open fire downward, to where they had just attacked. More explosions followed.

"Good work, _compañeras_," Lolita said. "Now let's leave the good sisters to their prayers; I'm sure they have many of them to say."

It was late evening and the sun was going down when Captain Greifenstein saw the sight he'd been longing for. As his Zaku stood knee-deep in the devastated buildings of Veracruz, eight black shapes appeared in the distance. He filtered the light in the image on his viewscreen and recognized the paint jobs. "It's the 505th," he reported to the remaining members of his team. He heard applause in response, then tuned in to Duarte's frequency. "Good to see you, Tavi!"

**"Sorry it took us so long,"** Duarte responded, **"We had to stop and chat with some Fedichos along the way."**

"I expect you did. Join the party; you know what to do."

Chavez looked down from the view from his Zaku's head and gasped. He'd never been to Veracruz before, but he could tell that it would never again look as it had only a couple of days before. A long path of devastation stretched from the south, a path of blackened, smoking ruins. Even away from that, he could see hollow shells of buildings, burned-out cars and trucks, some deliberately placed to block streets. From 50 feet up he could also see artillery emplacements here and there, and his GPS marked clearly which ones were friendly.

"**We're seeing a lot of guerilla activity,"** Greifenstein's voice went on. **"We're getting very sporadic intel from some Adelitas who aren't attached to our unit, and given their targets, it's clear they're on our side."**

**"Let them be,"** Duarte's voice answered. **"The last thing they probably want is orders from us. If we can coordinate with them, that'd be best, but they'll probably want that on their own terms."**

**"Bad guys, ten o'clock!"** Provi Alcaraz cried out**. "Five Type 61s, infantry with them!"**

"**Put them out of our misery, **compañera," Duarte ordered. **"Company, split into your teams. Head east; we have to keep these Fedichos away from** **that port."**

"There's a lot of weird activity going on near the port, sir," Staff Sergeant Orbach said to Donegal.

"Show me."

Orbach put the latest satellite photos on the overhead computer screen. "Long line of trucks, headed northwest."

Donegal examined it. "Looks like the ones who made the last-minute decision to be refugees, going up the coast."

The woman increased the magnification. "I'm not so sure about that, sir. There's a lot of people on horseback."

"People still use horses for transportation and agriculture." Donegal frowned. "I don't like it either, and my instinct's to tell the Don Escargots to let loose on them. Thing is, if it is just all the last-minute refugees, we are going to have Hell to pay afterwards, and a very unwelcoming population we'll have to beat into submission." He breathed out heavily through his teeth. "Leave them alone for now, but keep an eye on them."

"Yes, sir." Orbach continued to study the pictures. She had a cold, itchy feeling between her shoulder blades. She wasn't sure, but she thought one of those figures on horseback had been wearing a ski mask.

Sub-commandante Francisco refilled his pipe as he watched the citizens defend their city. His horse, Dulce, stood placidly, munching on some leaves she was contentedly pulling off a tree. Francisco was from Chiapas, the scion of a hereditary Zapatista family who had originally gone there to encourage revolution among the Maya in the late 20th century. Now the revolution was more complicated. The Earth Federation, with its program of deporting the poor, was clearly the enemy. The only Maya they left behind were those skilled in making traditional handicrafts or willing to let tourists point cameras at them as they lived in a "traditional village". Francisco lit his pipe. "Traditional village" to him meant "anthropological zoo".

The Kingdom of Jion was repatriating Mexico's stolen children, but the Zapatistas agreed that they had to be viewed with extreme suspicion. Even if the destruction of far-away Sidney didn't matter much to them, the fact that they willingly put on the trappings of royalty rather than being servants of the people like Emiliano Zapata and Che Guevara did not earn the Zabis trust. Francisco's superiors the Comandantes had refused an invitation to meet Garma Zabi in San Cristobal de las Casas. The child had apparently been quite offended. Garma liked to use words like "revolution" and "justice" but unless he truly came to understand the writings of Guevara and Francisco's forefather Marcos, he wasn't worth meeting.

The people of Veracruz were doing well. The people always did, once you earned their trust and they accepted your guidance. The Zapatistas weren't the only guerillas involved; there was a contingent of Adelitas as well. That was problematic; while some of them were Mexican, some were returnees from Side 3, taking orders from the command structure in Oaxaca.

One of his footsoldiers came walking up to him. Alberto was recognizable by the Virgin of Zapopan holy card pinned to his ski mask. "Sub-commandante. The vehicles are lined up, and the people are making good progress building the barricades on top of them."

"Very good work. How is morale?"

"Good, but they are wondering if they will be able to hold against the Federation onslaught. Some feel we should contact the Jions and join our strengths."

Francisco considered. "Let them contact us. This is our land; they are the late arrivals." He paused to think for a moment. "At least three forces are fighting for the soul of this city. This next dawn will show who it prefers."

The Benito Juarez had set up a position in the shell of an abandoned factory between Veracruz and the town of José Cardel. As soon as the 505th joined them, they were greeted with mugs of instant coffee, large bowls of chicken soup and tortillas. Mike Chavez accepted the food gratefully, although he still pushed the chicken meat around with his spoon before eating. A couple of weeks ago he'd encountered whole feet in his bowl, and he hadn't recovered yet.

The summer sun was still blazing down through the open roof of the building as they all sat down at a wooden picnic table to eat. As soon as everyone was assembled, Greifenstein opened up a laptop to show them maps and videos of what was going on in the city.

"Battalion is going crazy with this," he said. "There are so many pieces in motion that they are having a hard time coming up with a plan. So far, we've got the Feddies on approach from the south, with all the ancillary air units. Our own aircraft have been handling them, with of course a little backup from our Zakus on the ground."

"They can't leave home without us," Reyes quipped, but nobody laughed.

"So that's good, for the moment," Greifenstein went on. "We've all made it here, with one casualty; Corporal Menendez fell to a Type 61 along the 150. There are independent guerilla units at work in the city, and word has come to us that more are setting up barricades at the port along Mercante and Insurgentes, stretching out towards San Juan de Ulúa. Reliable intelligence says they're Zapatistas."

The two companies expressed a mixed reaction to this news, with a third grimacing, a third showing a lightened mood, and a third looking puzzled. Chavez predictably was in the third category. "Is this a good thing?"

"It depends," Duarte said, just as Madero spoke up, "It's good news!" Greifenstein glared at her and she shut up again. Ruiz, who was another one who'd wondered what to think, noticed that this was the first happy reaction she'd seen from Madero since the 505th had returned.

"The problem is that they're an unknown," Duarte said. "We know they're anti-Federation, but they're not great fans of us. They refused to meet with Garma Zabi, for instance, said there were too many 'philosophical differences'. On the other hand, in the past they've been faithful about telling us whenever they've seen the Federation sniffing around their territory." He shrugged. "

Xochitl Madero glanced over at Ruiz, then up at Greifenstein. "Captain? I have an idea for that, if you can spare me and Luna here."

"I'm listening."

"_Pues_, the Zapatistas see themselves as the champions of the oppressed, _¿verdad?_ I'm a full-blooded Nahua and both of us are women. Since the Zapatistas are willing to send informal reports to us on what the Fedichos are doing, maybe, if Ruiz and I go to ask them, we can get them to side with us."

Greifenstein looked over at Duarte. Duarte nodded. "We have to start fighting our way into the city to begin with. You two might as well be the ones to lead the way. Greifenstein, I want to ask for some of our Dopps to back them up."

Greifenstein nodded. "Absolutely." He smiled wearily at Xochitl and Luna. _"Que Díos se bendiga."_

Luna rubbed at her eyes as she steered her Zaku out of the carrier-heli's bay. The daylight was starting to soften and her mobile suit cast a long shadow. Veracruz itself was concealed beneath a dark-grey cloud of rising dust and smoke. Part of her wished they could let the Federation have the city and then just nuke it from the sky. Certainly the population didn't seem too interested in keeping their town intact.

She shook the thought off. It wasn't her home the Fedichos were going after. She tried to imagine how she'd feel if they were in Juarez Colony and reasoned that she might do the same.

Xochitl's Zaku pulled up alongside hers. She reached out her suit's hand to touch the shoulder of Luna's and said, **"The Zapatista camp is right there."**

"Think they'll attack us if we approach?"

"**Hard to say. Even if they do, what can they do to us? They're on horses with 20th century firearms. I don't think they can hurt a Zaku with them."**

"Yeah, but who knows if that's all they have?"

"**From what we've seen, it is. They won't take anything from the Fedichos and they lost their chance to get any armaments out of us. We can remind them of this if we have to."**

The two Zakus stepped along as carefully as they could down the beach. In a few minutes, they were looming over the end of the Zapatista barricade, the army-surplus tents of their headquarters about a quarter mile down, and a ring of black-masked personnel on horseback. One of the men raised a megaphone and asked into it, "What do you Jions want? Those Zakus of you are going to draw the Fedichos here!"

"We're here to ask for help," Luna said. "Just for this one battle, because we all know we have to win it."

The man raised the megaphone again. "Who is 'we'? Mexicans? Jions?"

"Some of us are both," Xochitl told him, and before Luna could say anything she opened the hatch of her cockpit and stepped down onto the lower door. Luna recognized immediately what her _compañera_ was doing; letting the Zapatistas get a good look at her brown skin, long black braids, and Jion uniform.

It obviously made an impression because the man said, "All right. Come with us to see the _commandantes_."

"We can't leave our mobile suits. We have to be able to be able to get into them if we're attacked."

The man took a walkie-talkie phone from his pocket and spoke into it. A few minutes later he said, "Francisco will come over here, but you have to meet him on the ground. Get out of the Zakus or no deal."

Xochitl nodded and climbed back into the cockpit so that she could have her Zaku crouch and put one hand on the ground, allowing her to climb down. Luna did the same. They approached the man on horseback as he nudged his mount forward. The man peered at both Luna and Xochitl, and then spoke in Nahuatl to Xochitl, who responded. They conversed for a few moments as Francisco rode up.

"Commandante," the soldier they were speaking to said to Francisco, "the _compañeras_ who want to speak to you."

Francisco dismounted and took a moment to bring out a pipe. Luna opened her mouth to speak, but Xochitl put a hand on her shoulder and shook her head. They waited until he'd filled his pipe from a pouch stored on his belt, lit it, and taken the first puff. "So, what can I do for you soldiers of the Crown?"

"Commandante, I'm Lt. Xochitl Madero of the Benito Juarez company of the North American Division. This is my comrade Lt. Luna Ruiz of the Royal Cuauhtemoc Company. We're here on behalf of our superiors to make a temporary alliance with you."

He nodded. Luna could see that he was bearded beneath his mask and that the skin around his eyes was deeply lined. His life couldn't be an easy one, she reasoned, and she hoped that he wouldn't arbitrarily decide that they weren't worth dealing with because of their fat spacenoid lifestyles. "What's in it for us?"

"We aren't in a position to do much negotiation right now," Xochitl apologized. "We just want the same thing you do: the Federation out of Veracruz without more damage to the city. It's been tortured enough."

Francisco nodded. "I am curious. Are you both Mexicans?"

The two women looked at each other. "I'm from Side 3," Luna said. "This is my first time in Mexico." Her brain scrambled for what to say next. "I feel very...connected here." She winced mentally.

"I was born in a town called Huamantla, near Tlaxcala," Xochitl told him, steely-eyed. "You know it? It was famous for its running of the bulls every year. _Was_ famous, in the past. We were sent to Side 3 when I was a little kid, and when we came back this past March, I went there. It's empty now, a ghost town. Am I a Mexican or a Jion? That's a good question, my friend. When we drive the Fedichos from this land, I intend to stay, but the first step is to drive the Fedichos from Veracruz. They get the port, forget it. They have Mexico. So I beg you, let's drop this game and do what we must do."

"What must we do?" Francisco looked more amused than moved.

"Many of those Jion artillery placements and the infantry too, speak only English. Many of the guerillas speak only Spanish, or not even that, indigenous languages. I know that among your people you have soldiers who speak English, Spanish, Nahuatl, Maya, and many others. We need you to coordinate their efforts, because you are the one group who can communicate with all of them. Together we can all rid ourselves of the Fedichos. After that, who knows? I am very sure you will not be left with empty hands; none of us have been so far."

Francisco nodded. "You've convinced me, my flowery friend. We have enough radios and walkie-talkies to have a good network. Give me a little time and we'll give the Federation a good look at what we oppressed of the earth can do."

By 2200, the sounds of fighting in the streets became much quieter.

"Perhaps they're giving up," Sgt. Orbach said to Donegal in the Federation TOC.

"Maybe," he said. There were still close to two hours of daylight left. Because the resistance to the Federation invaders had been erratic, Donegal didn't know if they considered daylight prime fighting time or not. "Any word about those two Zakus that are in the port?"

"No change, sir. They're parked. The pilots spoke to a couple of insurgents there, but haven't done anything or gone anywhere. Intel thinks they deserted."

"And the rest of them?"

"Minovsky particles interfere as usual, but something's moving south." She listened to her radio for a moment more. "There's a _Himalaya_ class aircraft carrier hailing us from ten miles offshore."

Donegal nodded. "I'm calling Brigade. I think it's time to go meet them."

Brigade agreed. Shortly after 2300, the Federation troops in the streets, including their armoured units, picked up and moved northeast, towards the shore. Sgt. Rule greeted the order with relief.

"Time to get our own back," he said to his soldiers as they shoved what was left of the MREs they'd been eating when they got the order into their rucks. "We let Zabi get six of our guys when we missed that RPG somewhere near the convent. We'll have six of Zabi's finest in return. Let's roll."

They fell into a patrol formation and started up the street. They'd been walking for two or three quiet minutes when suddenly the eerie near-silence was broken by the sounds of gunfire and explosions. They hit the dirt and rolled for cover, but a few moments of careful listening revealed that it wasn't near them—yet.

Rule knelt on one knee with his rifle in his hands, slowly scanning the street ahead of him. Through the transmitter in his helmet he heard "The Voice" from the TOC saying, **"Snickers team, here's the new sitrep. Bad news, guys. The beaners have got their act together. Look out for small columns of the enemy heading southwest, targeting artillery emplacements particularly, infantry looks like their second priority. They're not going to want you heading towards the port, so watch it. Lots of small arms, rocket launched grenades, even bayonets. Avoid 'Chile' and 'Buenos Aires'."**

The channel changed and he heard the Voice add, **"Snickers team leader? Confirm your location, over."**

"We're on 'Ecuador', near 'Montevideo'."

"**Three Musketeers needs help on 'Ecuador' and 'Quito', over."**

"Moving, Snickers team leader out."

He motioned to his platoon. They jumped to their feet and jogged down the street towards increasing noise. He could make out that there were fighter-bombers overhead, pursued by Jeek Dopps. Around them, the sounds of fighting grew more distinct with the pop of rifles, the rattles of fully-automated weapons, and the boom of mortars.

The smoke and dust got thicker the closer they came to their destination. Rule's eyes burned with it. One thing nagged at him. The patchwork of weaponry they'd faced earlier that day and in the days before was still in place, but before, it had been more random and scattershot. Now it seemed more organized. Could the locals have somehow decided to actually work together, rather than nearly individually, towards victory? If so, he wondered if they could be walking into an—

His thought about an ambush was cut off suddenly as rifle fire erupted from somewhere around them. He only realized that they were being fired upon from the storm drains when Private Bertolli went down screaming, grabbing at his right leg below the knee. Private Erkhart dropped down beside him, grabbing for the field dressing in his LBE but never got a chance to use it before both he was hit square in the face by a sniper from above.

As a grenade came flying right into the middle of the platoon, Rule reflected for some reason that he was glad the setting sun wasn't in his eyes.

At approximately 2330, Luna and Xochitl watched as several detachments of mounted Zapatistas spurred their mounts towards the growing conflagration in downtown Veracruz. "Kind of funny to look at them and think , we're the most recent version of cavalry," she said. "They're carrying revolvers and machetes."

"**Yes, well they practice aiming those machetes at the unprotected parts of a Fedicho's body,"**Xochitl told her. **"Don't go thinking they're quaint. You'll see that in a couple of minutes."**

Their orders were to let the Zapatistas and guerilla infantry keep striking at the Federation with Luna and Xochitl providing heavy armoured backup. The battle in the air was going well; new aircraft had stopped coming in from Jaburo and the bombers were starting to retreat. Their Zakus moved forward.

At first, Luna had been concerned about the narrower streets and the amount of damage a pair of Zakus could do to them. That fear was rapidly shown to be pointless as both Jion and Federation tanks had already plowed paths through city blocks.

"**Señorita Luna! Fedicho mortar emplacement, Ladero and Cinco de Mayo!"** The voice of one of their new Zapatista allies came in through the noise in her cockpit.

"I'm there." To her right she could see Xochitl, who continued to scan the sky, firing once in a while at the last bombers she could find. Luna's Zaku hop-scotched from ruin to ruin, which was just as easy as plowing a new route through buildings that were still standing. Her screens soon showed her the building in which the mortar nest was located.

"Xochitl, there." She pointed with her Zaku's hand. "Cover me."

"**Roger."**

Federation small-arms fire came towards her as she drove her Zaku towards the spot where she knew the mortar emplacement was located. Luna was cautious, but still laughed to herself. This was the best part of being a Zaku pilot; the feeling of being a nearly-invulnerable giant in the face of her enemies. Through the cameras on her Zaku's legs, she could see the tracers from 5.6 mm shells pinging off helplessly. She targeted the emplacement with her own machine gun and fired. Her accuracy was confirmed by the very satisfactory explosion that erupted, followed by the gunfire slowing to almost nothing.

"**Behind us!"**

Luna checked an ancillary screen to see four Type 61s coming in a single column down the street behind them. She turned her Zaku, deciding to sacrifice the buildings beside her in the interest of speed. Clouds of smoke and dust rose in the darkness, obscuring her vision. She found herself wishing for a gigantic electric fan to dispel it. Nonetheless, Xochitl's Zaku was moving forward, holding its heat hawk in both hands in front of it.

As Luna watched, Xochitl used the heat hawk as a narrow shield, swinging it like a pendulum to deflect the shells the tanks started firing on them as soon as they had a clear shot at the Zakus. That the tanks were coming at them at all was, Luna quickly realized, a desperate measure. They found themselves too close to the Zakus to use their firepower with any efficiency, by which time they also could not reverse.

"_Perate," _Luna said, and raised her machine gun to fire directly into the three tanks behind the one closest to Xochitl. As they exploded, Xochitl's Zaku was taking the near tank in both hands by its cannons, turning the barrels towards the presumably empty buildings to its right. The tank swiveled helplessly with its turret as the pivot for a moment before tearing free of it. Xochitl tossed the cannons aside like the legs of an insect torn off by a thoughtless child, then brought her Zaku down onto one knee and shoved its hand into the cavity that remained.

Luna cringed. "Madero, don't play with it!"

"**But I want to,"** Xochitl said, shaking the tank back and forth. It stopped showing signs of life almost immediately and she withdrew her Zaku's red-streaked fingers. **"I really want to throw it, but I don't want to wreck this city more. I'm going to leave this here though, to warn the others."** She stood and focused her suit's monoeye on Luna.**"It's not like I took them prisoner and tore their living hearts out, Luna, and it's just me getting back at them for killing my **compañera** today."**

Luna nodded inside her own cockpit. It wasn't as if she had never thought about bloody retribution for losing comrades. "True." She was quiet for a moment to listen to the radio and said, "Come on. They want us to move down towards Park #4. Let's go."

Several blocks to the north, Mike Chavez and Maria Franco were the first to notice that the Federation was retreating. As he watched, his infrared showed him a Federation troop carrier moving back south.

**"Did you see that?"** Franco asked, echoing what he was thinking.

"Yeah, that's weird. Let me call Duarte."

As he made the call, there was a loud "boom", a flash of orange light, and the ground shook. As a result, his first words to his commander were, "What was that?"

**"Federation carrier, offshore. Cruise missiles, last move against us, it looks like."**

"Franco and I just saw a bunch of Fedichos heading south, away from the port."

**"I just got the call a second ago. They're turning tail and heading back to Jabro."**

"Are we following them?"

"**Negative, that's for the aircraft to---**¡CUIDADO!"

A second "boom" and orange light followed, much closer than the one before. It hit a gas main and the resulting fire lit up the area. The already-ruined buildings to the left of Chavez and Franco quivered for a moment before crumbling and sliding into a pile of stone and dust.

"Let's go," Chavez told Franco, and they turned to the southwest, moving as quickly as possible towards the park. "It's a good last move, I must say," he added, observing a squad of dust-covered Zapatistas and other local troops as they tried to find their way out of the choking dust. They looked like ghosts in the darkness, with even their horses now covered from nose to tail in white powder.

**"Not long till daylight,"** Franco observed.

Chavez didn't think sunrise would help anything one way or the other. It would still be murky from the dust in the air, and he was deeply grateful for being in a mobile suit fitted with HEPA filters to screen it out. Even so, the view from his monoeye was cloudy and he'd have to find a way to clear it as the sun came up.

There was another pair of reports from the offshore carrier, striking to the southwest, but not too close to where he and Franco were moving. Despite this, he could see a distinct lightshow to the east, accompanied by the sound of an explosion of the kind he'd never heard before. "That's strange."

**"Wait, let's see where the next ones hit,"** she suggested.

They stood there for a moment, waiting, but the next volley never came. He kept waiting before he said into his radio, "Duarte! What's going on out there? What's that carrier doing?"

There was a long pause before Duarte answered, **"Mike…you are not going to believe what just happened."**

The Federation had retreated. Veracruz had been turning into a pyrrhic victory anyway, where if they had taken the port, it would be at the price of eradicating the city. The attack by the carrier itself had been evidence of that. The reason the attack had stopped was standing on the beach, dumping out its ballast in two wide rivers of seawater back into the ocean.

"What IS that?" Chavez asked, holding his hand up as a visor against the rising sun. The mobile suit was squat and neckless, lacking a clearly-defined head. Its extra-long, massive arms ended in grappling claws.

Pablo Gonzalez Garcia came up beneath him, holding two coffees that he handed to Chavez and Franco. "That, my friend, is a Gogg."

"A what?"

"A Gogg. I don't know its call letters yet, but it's Zimmad Company built, the pilot told me. Aquatic mobile suit, since the underwater Zaku was a bust. It just came right up and tore the hell out of the carrier from the underside and our bombers finished it off as it lay on its side in the water."

Luna Ruiz and Xochitl Madero came up to join them. "Where did it come from?" Ruiz asked.

Pablo smiled. "Flown in from California Base and launched from Cuba. Maybe they're not letting Garma have any more new suits, but he still had this trick up his sleeve. Just as well I've got a lot of work to do since it's gonna be a while before the pilot can talk to me."

"What, what's up with him?"

Pablo pointed to a tent the Zapatistas had erected as a latrine. "He got out, he was hungry, and he had a quesadilla someone prepared for him. He's just in from Side 3; poor guy never knew what hit him."

Duarte said grimly, "Villalobos got hit by one of the shells from the carrier."

Chavez and Franco turned. "Oh no!" Franco exclaimed.

Duarte didn't feel anything at first but surprise, which quickly turned into a foggy realization that good-natured and funny Villalobos wasn't there anymore. He looked up at Luna, who had her hands over her mouth in grief. Maria Franco went over to her and put her arms around the younger woman.

"I know it's tasteless, but I gotta say this," Pablo said a few moments later, his own voice broken with emotion. "When ol' Jorge first got here, he spent his first couple of days in the latrine too. Now his avenger has the same thing happen to him. Maybe his spirit got into that pilot."

"To give him the shits?" Xochitl snorted.

Luna wiped tears but smiled. "Yeah. Sounds like Villalobos all right."

Chavez turned from the sight of the Gogg to look back at the city. It was still burning and the dust cloud would take days to settle, but already people were at work with kerchiefs over their faces, unmooring the boats that had survived the battle, pushing food carts they had somehow managed to stock, getting ready for some semblance of the day's business. The air already smelled of diesel and frying food. Once again Veracruz had survived the invader and once again it was time to move on.

He might be a Jion originally from Los Angeles, but he really wanted part of himself to belong here. First there was mobile suit maintenance to see to though, and sleep. They would be back in Teotihuacan in a few days. They'd hurt the Feddies badly this time, so he didn't know how long he'd be staying on Earth, which he had to admit, he now wanted to.

"Pablo, is it safe to walk my Zaku into the ocean to get the dust off?" he asked.

"Yeah, we've marked off where it's not mined. Be doing me a favour."

Chavez nodded and headed towards his machine to make the first small steps into whatever mission followed.

Author's Notes: Chapter 6. 20 months. Yikes.

I started this chapter in December of 2004 in Mexico City, usually sitting in the rooftop cafe/bar of my hostel, looking at the Catedral Metropolitana over the other buildings, with a glass of tequila at my elbow.

I revised it in light of what urban combat training I'd received in Ft. Jackson, SC where I went through Army basic training. My joke is that this is the research I'm willing to undertake for reality. I was away from my computer for six months.

I know I've been writing this thing about as quickly as Kohta Hirano who does "Hellsing", although I think I spend my time in far more worthwhile pursuits.

Part of 7 is already written, but I'm going to hold off on my usual, "I don't want the interval between this chapter and the next to be as long," because you never know and I don't want to jinx myself. Thanks for your patience.


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